I 


.  I    .     • 
N   1 


- 


THE  WORKS  OF 
GILBERT  PARKER 


'I"7?- 


GILBERT  PARKER 


A  ROMANY 
OF  THE  SNOWS 


BEING   A   CONTINUATION   OF 
THE   PERSONAL   HISTORIES   OF   "PIERRE   AND 

HIS  PEOPLE"   AND  THE  LAST 
EXISTING   RECORDS   OF  PRETTY   PIERRE 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES  SGRIBNER'S  SONS 

1916 


Copyright,  1896, 
BY  STONE  &  KIMBALL 


Copyright,  1898, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1912, 
BY  CHARLES  SCBIBNER'S  SONS 


To 

SIR  WILLIAM  C.   VAN  HORNE. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  WILLIAM, 

To  the  public  it  will  seem  fitting  that 
these  new  tales  of  "Pierre  and  His  People" 
should  be  inscribed  to  one  whose  notable  career  is 
inseparably  associated  with  the  life  and  develop- 
ment of  the  Far  North. 

But  there  is  a  deeper  and  more  personal  signifi- 
cance in  this  dedication,  for  some  of  the  stories 
were  begotten  in  late  gossip  by  your  fireside;  and 
furthermore,  my  little  book  is  given  a  kind  of 
distinction,  in  having  on  its  fore-page  the  name 
of  one  well  known  as  a  connoisseur  of  art  and 
a  lover  of  literature. 

Believe  me, 

DEAR  SIR  WILLIAM, 

Sincerely  yours, 

GILBERT  PARKER. 


7  PARK  PLACE, 
ST.  JAMESS, 

LONDON,  S.  W. 


2224890 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  can  hardly  be  said  that  there  were  two  series  of  Pierre  stories. 
There  never  was  but  one  series,  in  fact.  Pierre  moved  through  all 
the  thirty-nine  stories  of  Pierre  and  His  People  and  A  Romany  of 
the  Snows  without  any  thought  on  my  part  of  putting  him  out  of 
existence  in  one  series  and  bringing  him  to  life  again  in  another. 
The  publication  of  the  stories  was  continuous,  and  at  the  time 
that  Pierre  and  His  People  appeared  several  of  those  which 
came  between  the  covers  of  A  Romany  of  the  Snows  were  passing 
through  the  pages  of  magazines  in  England  and  America.  All 
of  the  thirty-nine  stories  might  have  appeared  in  one  volume 
under  the  title  of  Pierre  and  His  People,  but  they  were  published 
in  two  volumes  with  different  titles  in  England,  and  in  three 
volumes  in  America,  simply  because  there  was  enough  material 
for  the  two  and  the  three  volumes.  In  America  The  Adventurer  of 
the  North  was  broken  up  into  two  volumes  at  the  urgent  request 
of  my  then  publishers,  Messrs.  Stone  &  Kimball,  who  had  the  gift 
of  producing  beautiful  books,  but  perhaps  had  not  the  same  gift 
of  business.  These  two  American  volumes  succeeding  Pierre  were 
published  under  the  title  of  An  Adventurer  of  the  North  and  A  Ro- 
many of  the  Snows  respectively.  Now,  the  latter  title,  A  Romany 
of  the  Snows,  was  that  which  I  originally  chose  for  the  volume 
published  in  England  as  An  Adventurer  of  the  North.  I  was  per- 
suaded to  reject  the  title,  A  Romany  of  the  Snows,  by  my  English 
publisher,  and  I  have  never  forgiven  myself  since  for  being  so 
weak.  If  a  publisher  had  the  infallible  instinct  for  these  things 
he  would  not  be  a  publisher — he  would  be  an  author;  and  though 
an  author  may  make  mistakes  like  everybody  else,  the  average 

of  his  hits  will  be  far  higher  than  the  average  of  his  misses  in 

vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

such  things.  The  title,  An  Adventurer  of  the  North,  is  to  my  mind 
cumbrous  and  rough,  and  difficult  in  the  mouth.  Compare  it 
with  some  of  the  stories  within  the  volume  itself:  for  instance, 
The  Going  of  the  White  Swan,  A  Lovely  Bully,  At  Bamber's  Boom, 
At  Point  o'  Bugles,  The  Pilot  of  Belle  Amour,  The  Spoil  of  the 
Puma,  A  Romany  of  the  Snows,  and  The  Finding  of  Fingall  There 
it  was,  however;  I  made  the  mistake  and  it  sticks ;  but  the  book 
now  will  be  published  in  this  subscription  edition  under  the 
title  first  chosen  by  me,  A  Romany  of  the  Snows.  It  really  does 
express  what  Pierre  was. 

Perhaps  some  of  the  stories  in  A  Romany  of  the  Snows  have 
not  the  sentimental  simplicity  of  some  of  the  earlier  stories  in 
Pierre  and  His  People,  which  take  hold  where  a  deeper  and  better 
work  might  not  seize  the  general  public;  but,  reading  these  later 
stories  after  twenty  years,  I  feel  that  I  was  moving  on  steadily 
to  a  larger,  firmer  command  of  my  material,  and  was  getting  at 
closer  grips  with  intimate  human  things.  There  is  some  proof 
of  what  I  say  in  the  fact  that  one  of  the  stories  in  A  Romany  of 
the  Snows,  called  The  Going  of  the  White  Swan,  appropriately 
enough  published  originally  in  Scribner's  Magazine,  has  had  an 
extraordinary  popularity.  It  has  been  included  in  the  pro- 
grammes of  reciters  from  the  Murrumbidgee  to  the  Vaal,  from 
John  O'Groat's  to  Land's  End,  and  is  now  being  published  as  a 
separate  volume  in  England  and  America.  It  has  been  drama- 
tised several  times,  and  is  more  alive  to-day  than  it  was  when  it 
was  published  nearly  twenty  years  ago.  Almost  the  same  may 
be  said  of  The  Three  Commandments  in  the  Vulgar  Tongue. 

It  has  been  said  that,  apart  from  the  colour,  form,  and  setting, 
the  incidents  of  these  Pierre  stories  might  have  occurred  any- 
where. That  is  true  beyond  a  doubt,  and  it  exactly  represents 
my  attitude  of  mind.  Every  human  passion,  every  incident 
springing  out  of  a  human  passion  to-day,  had  its  counterpart  in 
the  time  of  Amenhotep.  The  only  difference  is  in  the  setting, 
is  in  the  language  or  dialect  which  is  the  vehicle  of  expression, 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

and  in  race  and  character,  which  are  the  media  of  human  idio- 
syncrasy. There  is  nothing  new  in  anything  that  one  may  write, 
except  the  outer  and  visible  variation  of  race,  character,  and 
country,  which  reincarnates  the  everlasting  human  ego  and  its 
scena. 

The  atmosphere  of  a  story  or  novel  is  what  temperament  is 
to  a  man.  Atmosphere  cannot  be  created;  it  is  not  a  matter  of 
skill ;  it  is  a  matter  of  personality,  of  the  power  of  visualisation, 
of  feeling  for  the  thing  which  the  mind  sees.  It  has  been  said 
that  my  books  possess  atmosphere.  This  has  often  been  said 
when  criticism  has  been  more  or  less  acute  upon  other  things; 
but  I  think  that  in  all  my  experience  there  has  never  been  a  critic 
who  has  not  credited  my  books  with  that  quality;  and  I  should 
say  that  Pierre  and  His  People  and  A  Romany  of  the  Snows  have 
an  atmosphere  in  which  the  beings  who  make  the  stories  live 
seem  natural  to  their  environment.  It  is  this  quality  which 
gives  vitality  to  the  characters  themselves.  Had  I  not  been  able 
to  create  atmosphere  which  would  have  given  naturalness  to 
Pierre  and  his  friends,  some  of  the  characters,  and  many  of  the 
incidents,  would  have  seemed  monstrosities — melodramatic  epi- 
sodes merely.  The  truth  is,  that  while  the  episode,  which  is  the 
first  essential  of  a  short  story,  was  always  in  the  very  forefront  of 
my  imagination,  the  character  or  characters  in  the  episode  meant 
infinitely  more  to  me.  To  my  mind  the  episode  was  always  the 
consequence  of  character.  That  almost  seems  a  paradox;  but 
apart  from  the  phenomena  of  nature,  as  possible  incidents  in  a 
book,  the  episodes  which  make  what  are  called  "human  situa- 
tions" are,  in  most  instances,  the  sequence  of  character  and  are 
incidental  to  the  law  of  the  character  set  in  motion.  As  I  realise 
it  now,  subconsciously,  my  mind  and  imagination  were  con- 
trolled by  this  point  of  view  in  the  days  of  the  writing  of  Pierre 
and  His  People. 

In  the  life  and  adventures  of  Pierre  and  his  people  I  came,  as 
I  think,  to  a  certain  command  of  my  material,  without  losing  real 


x  INTRODUCTION 

sympathy  with  the  simple  nature  of  things.  Dexterity  has  its 
dangers,  and  one  of  its  dangers  is  artificiality.  It  is  very  difficult 
to  be  skilful  and  to  ring  true.  If  I  have  not  wholly  succeeded 
in  A  Romany  of  the  Snows,  I  think  I  have  not  wholly  failed,  as 
the  continued  appeal  of  a  few  of  the  stories  would  seem  to  show. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ACROSS  THE  JUMPING  SANDHILLS 3 

A   LOVELY  BULLY 13 

THE   FILIBUSTER 30 

THE   GIFT   OF  THE  SIMPLE   KING 47 

MALACHI 66 

THE  LAKE  OF  THE  GREAT  SLAVE 75 

THE  RED  PATROL 90 

THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN 101 

AT  BAMBER'S  BOOM        .       .       .       .              .       .       .  120 

THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE 129 

THE  EPAULETTES 145 

THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  BROKEN  SHUTTER  ....  153 

THE  FINDING  OF  FINGALL 167 

THREE  COMMANDMENTS  IN  THE  VULGAR  TONGUE    .       .  176 

LITTLE  BABICHE 197 

AT  POINT  O*  BUGLES 207 

THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA 218 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUN  DOGS 239 

THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR 248 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "NINETY-NINE"        ....  267 

A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 295 

THE  PLUNDERER  313 


A  EOMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 


ACROSS  THE  JUMPING  SANDHILLS 

"HERE  now,  Trader;  aisy,  aisy!  Quicksands  I've  seen 
along  the  sayshore,  and  up  to  me  half -ways  I've  been  in 
wan,  wid  a  double-and- twist  in  the  rope  to  pull  me  out; 
but  a  suckin'  sand  in  the  open  plain — aw,  Trader,  aw! 
the  like  o'  that  niver  a  bit  saw  I." 

So  said  Macavoy  the  giant,  when  the  thing  was 
talked  of  in  his  presence. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  it's  true,  and  they're  not  three 
miles  from  Fort  0' Glory.  The  Company's*  men  don't 
talk  about  it — what's  the  use!  Travellers  are  few  that 
way,  and  you  can't  get  the  Indians  within  miles  of  them. 
Pretty  Pierre  knows  all  about  them — better  than  any- 
one else  almost.  He'll  stand  by  me  in  it — eh,  Pierre?" 

Pierre,  the  half-breed  gambler  and  adventurer,  took 
no  notice,  and  was  silent  for  a  tune,  intent  on  his 
cigarette;  and  in  the  pause  Mowley  the  trapper  said: 
"Pierre's  gone  back  on  you,  Trader.  P'r'aps  ye  haven't 
paid  him  for  the  last  lie.  I  go  one  better,  you  stand  by 
me — my  treat — that's  the  game!" 

"Aw,  the  like  o'  that,"  added  Macavoy  reproach- 
fully. "Aw,  yer  tongue  to  the  roof  o'  yer  mouth, 
Mowley.  Liars  all  men  may  be,  but  that's  wid  wimmin 
or  landlords.  But,  Pierre,  aff  another  man's  bat  like 
that — aw,  Mowley,  fill  your  mouth  wid  the  bowl  o' 
yer  pipe. " 

Pierre  now  looked  up  at  the  three  men,  rolling  another 
cigarette  as  he  did  so;  but  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  of 

*  Hudson's  Bay  Company. 
3 


4  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

a  distant  matter.  Meeting  the  three  pairs  of  eyes  fixed 
on  him,  his  own  held  them  for  a  moment  musingly; 
then  he  lit  his  cigarette,  and,  half  reclining  on  the  bench 
where  he  sat,  he  began  to  speak,  talking  into  the  fire 
as  it  were.  • 

"I  was  at  Guidon  Hill,  at  the  Company's  post  there. 
It  was  the  fall  of  the  year,  when  you  feel  that  there  is 
nothing  so  good  as  life,  and  the  air  drinks  like  wine. 
You  think  that  sounds  like  a  woman  or  a  priest?  Mais, 
no.  The  seasons  are  strange.  In  the  spring  I  am  lazy 
and  sad;  in  the  fall  I  am  gay,  I  am  for  the  big  things 
to  do.  This  matter  was  in  the  fall.  I  felt  that  I  must 
move.  Yet,  what  to  do?  There  was  the  thing.  Cards, 
of  course.  But  that's  only  for  tunes,  not  for  all  seasons. 
So  I  was  like  a  wild  dog  on  a  chain.  I  had  a  good  horse — 
Tophet,  black  as  a  coal,  all  raw  bones  and  joint,  and  a 
reach  like  a  moose.  His  legs  worked  like  piston-rods. 
But,  as  I  said,  I  did  not  know  where  to  go  or  what  to 
do.  So  we  used  to  sit  at  the  Post  loafing :  in  the  daytime 
watching  the  empty  plains  all  panting  for  travellers, 
like  a  young  bride  waiting  her  husband  for  the  first 
tune." 

Macavoy  regarded  Pierre  with  delight.  He  had  an 
unctuous  spirit,  and  his  heart  was  soft  for  women — so 
soft  that  he  never  had  had  one  on  his  conscience,  though 
he  had  brushed  gay  smiles  off  the  lips  of  many.  But 
that  was  an  amiable  weakness  in  a  strong  man.  "Aw, 
Pierre,"  he  said  coaxingly,  "kape  it  down;  aisy,  aisy. 
Me  heart's  goin'  like  a  trip-hammer  at  thought  av  it; 
aw  yis,  aw  yis,  Pierre. " 

"Well,  it  was  like  that  to  me — all  sun  and  a  sweet 
sting  hi  the  air.  At  night  to  sit  and  tell  tales  and  such 
things;  and  perhaps  a  little  brown  brandy,  a  look  at  the 
stars,  a  half-hour  with  the  cattle — the  same  old  game. 


ACROSS  THE  JUMPING  SANDHILLS        5 

Of  course,  there  was  the  wife  of  Hilton  the  factor — fine, 
always  fine  to  see,  but  deaf  and  dumb.  We  were  good 
friends,  Ida  and  me.  I  had  a  hand  in  her  wedding. 
Holy,  I  knew  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  We  could 
talk  together  by  signs.  She  was  a  good  woman;  she 
had  never  guessed  at  evil.  She  was  quick,  too,  like  a 
flash,  to  read  and  understand  without  words.  A  face 
was  a  book  to  her. 

"Eh  bien.  One  afternoon  we  were  all  standing  out- 
side the  Post,  when  we  saw  someone  ride  over  the  Long 
Divide.  It  was  good  for  the  eyes.  I  cannot  tell  quite 
how,  but  horse  and  rider  were  so  sharp  and  clear-cut 
against  the  sky,  that  they  looked  very  large  and  pecu- 
liar— there  was  something  in  the  air  to  magnify.  They 
stopped  for  a  minute  on  the  top  of  the  Divide,  and  it 
seemed  like  a  messenger  out  of  the  strange  country  at 
the  farthest  north — the  place  of  legends.  But,  of  course, 
it  was  only  a  traveller  like  ourselves,  for  in  a  half-hour 
she  was  with  us. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  girl  dressed  as  a  man.  She  did  not 
try  to  hide  it;  she  dressed  so  for  ease.  She  would  make 
a  man's  heart  leap  in  his  mouth — if  he  was  like  Mac- 
avoy,  or  the  pious  Mowley  there." 

Pierre's  last  three  words  had  a  touch  of  irony,  for 
he  knew  that  the  Trapper  had  a  precious  tongue  for 
Scripture  when  a  missionary  passed  that  way,  and  a 
bad  name  with  women  to  give  it  point.  Mowley  smiled 
sourly;  but  Macavoy  laughed  outright,  and  smacked 
his  lips  on  his  pipe-stem  luxuriously. 

"Aw  now,  Pierre — all  me  little  failin's — aw!"  he 
protested. 

Pierre  swung  round  on  the  bench,  leaning  upon  the 
other  elbow,  and,  cherishing  his  cigarette,  presently 
continued : 


6  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"She  had  come  far  and  was  tired  to  death,  so  stiff 
that  she  could  hardly  get  from  her  horse;  and  the  horse 
too  was  ready  to  drop.  Handsome  enough  she  looked, 
for  all  that,  in  man's  clothes  and  a  peaked  cap,  with  a 
pistol  in  her  belt.  She  wasn't  big  built — just  a  feathery 
kind  of  sapling — but  she  was  set  fair  on  her  legs  like  a 
man,  and  a  hand  that  was  as  good  as  I  have  seen,  so 
strong,  and  like  silk  and  iron  with  a  horse.  Well,  what 
was  the  trouble? — for  I  saw  there  was  trouble.  Her 
eyes  had  a  hunted  look,  and  her  nose  breathed  like  a 
deer's  in  the  chase.  All  at  once,  when  she  saw  Hilton's 
wife,  a  cry  came  from  her  and  she  reached  out  her 
hands.  What  would  women  of  that  sort  do?  They 
were  both  of  a  kind.  They  got  into  each  other's  arms. 
After  that  there  was  nothing  for  us  men  but  to  wait. 
All  women  are  the  same,  and  Hilton's  wife  was  like  the 
rest.  She  must  get  the  secret  first;  then  the  men  should 
know.  We  had  to  wait  an  hour.  Then  Hilton's  wife 
beckoned  to  us.  We  went  inside.  The  girl  was  asleep. 
There  was  something  hi  the  touch  of  Hilton's  wife  like 
sleep  itself — like  music.  It  was  her  voice — that  touch. 
She  could  not  speak  with  her  tongue,  but  her  hands 
and  face  were  words  and  music.  Bien,  there  was  the 
girl  asleep,  all  clear  of  dust  and  stain;  and  that  fine  hand 
it  lay  loose  on  her  breast,  so  quiet,  so  quiet.  Enfin,  the 
real  story — for  how  she  slept  there  does  not  matter — 
but  it  was  good  to  see  when  we  knew  the  story." 

The  Trapper  was  laughing  silently  to  himself  to  hear 
Pierre  in  this  romantic  mood.  A  woman's  hand — it 
was  the  game  for  a  boy,  not  an  adventurer;  for  the 
Trapper's  only  creed  was  that  women,  like  deer,  were 
spoils  for  the  hunter.  Pierre's  keen  eye  noted  this,  but 
he  was  above  petty  anger.  He  merely  said:  "If  a  man 
have  an  eye  to  see  behind  the  face,  he  understands  the 


ACROSS  THE  JUMPING  SANDHILLS       7 

foolish  laugh  of  a  man,  or  the  hand  of  a  good  woman, 
and  that  is  much.  Hilton's  wife  told  us  all.  She  had 
rode  two  hundred  miles  from  the  south-west,  and  was 
making  for  Fort  Micah,  sixty  miles  farther  north.  For 
what?  She  had  loved  a  man  against  the  will  of  her 
people.  There  had  been  a  feud,  and  Garrison — that 
was  the  lover's  name — was  the  last  on  his  own  side. 
There  was  trouble  at  a  Company's  post,  and  Garrison 
shot  a  half-breed.  Men  say  he  was  right  to  shoot  him, 
for  a  woman's  name  must  be  safe  up  here.  Besides,  the 
half-breed  drew  first.  Well,  Garrison  was  tried,  and 
must  go  to  jail  for  a  year.  At  the  end  of  that  tune  he 
would  be  free.  The  girl  Janie  knew  the  day.  Word 
had  come  to  her.  She  made  everything  ready.  She 
knew  her  brothers  were  watching — her  three  brothers 
and  two  other  men  who  had  tried  to  get  her  love.  She 
knew  also  that  they  five  would  carry  on  the  feud  against 
the  one  man.  So  one  night  she  took  the  best  horse  on 
the  ranch  and  started  away  towards  Fort  Micah.  Alors, 
you  know  how  she  got  to  Guidon  Hill  after  two  days' 
hard  riding — enough  to  kill  a  man,  and  over  fifty  yet 
to  do.  She  was  sure  her  brothers  were  on  her  track. 
But  if  she  could  get  to  Fort  Micah,  and  be  married  to 
Garrison  before  they  came,  she  wanted  no  more. 

"There  were  only  two  horses  of  use  at  Hilton's  Post 
then;  all  the  rest  were  away,  or  not  fit  for  hard  travel. 
There  was  my  Tophet,  and  a  lean  chestnut,  with  a  long 
propelling  gait,  and  not  an  ounce  of  loose  skin  on  him. 
There  was  but  one  way :  the  girl  must  get  there.  Allans, 
what  is  the  good?  What  is  life  without  these  things? 
The  girl  loves  the  man:  she  must  have  him  in  spite  of 
all.  There  was  only  Hilton  and  his  wife  and  me  at  the 
Post,  and  Hilton  was  lame  from  a  fall,  and  one  arm  in  a 
sling.  If  the  brothers  followed,  well,  Hilton  could  not 


8  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

interfere — he  was  a  Company's  man;  but  for  myself, 
as  I  said,  I  was  hungry  for  adventure,  I  had  an  ache  in 
my  blood  for  something.  I  was  tingling  to  the  toes,  my 
heart  was  thumping  in  my  throat.  All  the  cords  of  my 
legs  were  straightening  as  if  I  was  in  the  saddle. 

"She  slept  for  three  hours.  I  got  the  two  horses 
saddled.  Who  could  tell  but  she  might  need  help?  I 
had  nothing  to  do;  I  knew  the  shortest  way  to  Fort 
Micah,  every  foot — and  then  it  is  good  to  be  ready  for 
all  things.  I  told  Hilton's  wife  what  I  had  done.  She 
was  glad.  She  made  a  gesture  at  me  as  to  a  brother,  and 
then  began  to  put  things  in  a  bag  for  us  to  carry.  She 
had  settled  all  how  it  was  to  be.  She  had  told  the  girl. 
You  see,  a  man  may  be — what  is  it  they  call  me? — a 
plunderer,  and  yet  a  woman  will  trust  him,  comme  fa/" 

"Aw  yis,  aw  yis,  Pierre;  but  she  knew  yer  hand  and 
yer  tongue  niver  whit  agin  a  woman,  Pierre.  Naw, 
niver  a  wan.  Aw  swate,  swate,  she  was,  wid  a  heart — 
a  heart,  Hilton's  wife,  aw  yis!" 

Pierre  waved  Macavoy  into  silence.  "The  girl  waked 
after  three  hours  with  a  start.  Her  hand  caught  at  her 
heart.  'Oh/  she  said,  still  staring  at  us,  'I  thought  that 
they  had  come!'  A  little  after  she  and  Hilton's  wife 
went  to  another  room.  All  at  once  there  was  a  sound 
of  horses  outside,  and  then  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
four  men  come  in.  They  were  the  girl's  hunters. 

"It  was  hard  to  tell  what  to  do  all  in  a  minute;  but 
I  saw  at  once  the  best  thing  was  to  act  for  all,  and  to  get 
all  the  men  inside  the  house.  So  I  whispered  to  Hilton, 
and  then  pretended  that  I  was  a  great  man  in  the  Com- 
pany. I  ordered  Hilton  to  have  the  horses  cared  for, 
and,  not  giving  the  men  tune  to  speak,  I  fetched  out 
the  old  brown  brandy,  wondering  all  the  time  what 
could  be  done.  There  was  no  sound  from  the  other 


ACROSS  THE  JUMPING  SANDHILLS        9 

room,  though  I  thought  I  heard  a  door  open  once.  Hil- 
ton played  the  game  well,  and  showed  nothing  when  I 
ordered  him  about,  and  agreed  word  for  word  with  me 
when  I  said  no  girl  had  come,  laughing  when  they  told 
why  they  were  after  her.  More  than  one  of  them  did 
not  believe  at  first;  but,  pshaw,  what  have  I  been  doing 
all  my  life  to  let  such  fellows  doubt  me?  So  the  end  of 
it  was  that  I  got  them  all  inside  the  house.  There  was 
one  bad  thing — their  horses  were  all  fresh,  as  Hilton 
whispered  to  me.  They  had  only  rode  them  a  few  miles 
—they  had  stole  or  bought  them  at  the  first  ranch  to 
the  west  of  the  Post.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind 
what  to  do.  But  it  was  clear  I  must  keep  them  quiet 
till  something  shaped. 

''They  were  all  drinking  brandy  when  Hilton's  wife 
come  into  the  room.  Her  face  was,  mon  Dieu!  so  inno- 
cent, so  childlike.  She  stared  at  the  men;  and  then  I 
told  them  she  was  deaf  and  dumb,  and  I  told  her  why 
they  had  come.  Voila,  it  was  beautiful — like  nothing 
you  ever  saw.  She  shook  her  head  so  innocent,  and  then 
told  them  like  a  child  that  they  were  wicked  to  chase  a 
girl.  I  could  have  kissed  her  feet.  Thunder,  how  she 
fooled  them!  She  said,  would  they  not  search  the 
house?  She  said  all  through  me,  on  her  fingers  and  by 
signs.  And  I  told  them  at  once.  But  she  told  me  some- 
thing else — that  the  girl  had  slipped  out  as  the  last 
man  came  in,  had  mounted  the  chestnut,  and  would 
wait  for  me  by  the  iron  spring,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 
There  was  the  danger  that  some  one  of  the  men  knew 
the  finger-talk,  so  she  told  me  this  in  signs  mixed  up 
with  other  sentences. 

"Good!  There  was  now  but  one  thing — for  me  to 
get  away.  So  I  said,  laughing,  to  one  of  the  men. 
'  Come,  and  we  will  look  after  the  horses,  and  the  others 


10  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

can  search  the  place  with  Hilton.'  So  we  went  out  to 
where  the  horses  were  tied  to  the  railing,  and  led  them 
away  to  the  corral. 

"Of  course  you  will  understand  how  I  did  it.  I 
clapped  a  hand  on  his  mouth,  put  a  pistol  at  his  head, 
and  gagged  and  tied  him.  Then  I  got  my  Tophet,  and 
away  I  went  to  the  spring.  The  girl  was  waiting.  There 
were  few  words.  I  gripped  her  hand,  gave  her  another 
pistol,  and  then  we  got  away  on  a  fine  moonlit  trail. 
We  had  not  gone  a  mile  when  I  heard  a  faint  yell  far 
behind.  My  game  had  been  found  out.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  ride  for  it  now,  and  maybe  to  fight. 
But  fighting  was  not  good;  for  I  might  be  killed,  and 
then  the  girl  would  be  caught  just  the  same.  We  rode 
on — such  a  ride,  the  horses  neck  and  neck,  their  hoofs 
pounding  the  prairie  like  drills,  rawbone  to  rawbone, 
a  hell-to-split  gait.  I  knew  they  were  after  us,  though 
I  saw  them  but  once  on  the  crest  of  a  Divide  about 
three  miles  behind.  Hour  after  hour  like  that,  with  ten 
minutes'  rest  now  and  then  at  a  spring  or  to  stretch 
our  legs.  We  hardly  spoke  to  each  other;  but,  nom  de 
Dieu!  my  heart  was  warm  to  this  girl  who  had  rode  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  in  twenty-four  hours.  Just 
before  dawn,  when  I  was  beginning  to  think  that  we 
should  easy  win  the  race  if  the  girl  could  but  hold  out, 
if  it  did  not  kill  her,  the  chestnut  struck  a  leg  into  the 
crack  of  the  prairie,  and  horse  and  girl  spilt  on  the 
ground  together.  She  could  hardly  move,  she  was  so 
weak,  and  her  face  was  like  death.  I  put  a  pistol  to  the 
chestnut's  head,  and  ended  it.  The  girl  stooped  and 
kissed  the  poor  beast's  neck,  but  spoke  nothing.  As 
I  helped  her  on  my  Tophet  I  put  my  lips  to  the  sleeve 
of  her  dress.  Mother  of  Heaven!  what  could  a  man 
do — she  was  so  dam'  brave. 


ACROSS  THE  JUMPING  SANDHILLS      11 

"Dawn  was  just  breaking  oozy  and  grey  at  the  swell 
of  the  prairie  over  the  Jumping  Sandhills.  They  lay 
quiet  and  shining  in  the  green-brown  plain;  but  I  knew 
that  there  was  a  churn  beneath  which  could  set  those 
swells  of  sand  in  motion,  and  make  glory-to-God  of  an 
army.  Who  can  tell  what  it  is?  A  flood  under  the  sur- 
face, a  tidal  river — what?  No  man  knows.  But  they 
are  sea  monsters  on  the  land.  Every  morning  at  sun- 
rise they  begin  to  eddy  and  roll — and  who  ever  saw  a 
stranger  sight?  Bien,  I  looked  back.  There  were  those 
four  pirates  coming  on,  about  three  miles  away.  What 
was  there  to  do?  The  girl  and  myself  on  my  blown  horse 
were  too  much.  Then  a  great  idea  come  to  me.  I  must 
reach  and  cross  the  Jumping  Sandhills  before  sunrise. 
It  was  one  deadly  chance. 

"When  we  got  to  the  edge  of  the  sand  they  were 
almost  a  mile  behind.  I  was  all  sick  to  my  teeth  as  my 
poor  Tophet  stepped  into  the  silt.  Sacre,  how  I  watched 
the  dawn!  Slow,  slow,  we  dragged  over  that  velvet 
powder.  As  we  reached  the  farther  side  I  could  feel  it 
was  beginning  to  move.  The  sun  was  showing  like  the 
lid  of  an  eye  along  the  plain.  I  looked  back.  All  four 
horsemen  were  in  the  sand,  plunging  on  towards  us. 
By  the  tune  we  touched  the  brown-green  prairie  on  the 
farther  side  the  sand  was  rolling  behind  us.  The  girl 
had  not  looked  back.  She  seemed  too  dazed.  I  jumped 
from  the  horse,  and  told  her  that  she  must  push  on  alone 
to  the  Fort,  that  Tophet  could  not  carry  both,  that  I 
should  be  in  no  danger.  She  looked  at  me  so  deep — 
ah,  I  cannot  tell  how!  then  stooped  and  kissed  me  be- 
tween the  eyes — I  have  never  forgot.  I  struck  Tophet, 
and  she  was  gone  to  her  happiness;  for  before  'lights 
out!'  she  reached  the  Fort  and  her  lover's  arms. 

"But  I  stood  looking  back  on  the  Jumping  Sandhills. 


12  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

So,  was  there  ever  a  sight  like  that — those  hills  gone  like 
a  smelting-floor,  the  sunrise  spotting  it  with  rose  and 
yellow,  and  three  horses  and  their  riders  fighting  what 
cannot  be  fought? — What  could  I  do?  They  would  have 
got  the  girl  and  spoiled  her  life,  if  I  had  not  led  them 
across,  and  they  would  have  killed  me  if  they  could. 
Only  one  cried  out,  and  then  but  once,  in  a  long  shriek. 
But  after,  all  three  were  quiet  as  they  fought,  until  they 
were  gone  where  no  man  could  see,  where  none  cries 
out  so  we  can  hear.  The  last  thing  I  saw  was  a  hand 
stretching  up  out  of  the  sands." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  painful  to  bear.  The  Trader 
sat  with  eyes  fixed  humbly  as  a  dog's  on  Pierre.  At 
last  Macavoy  said:  "She  kissed  ye,  Pierre,  aw  yis,  she 
did  that!  Jist  betune  the  eyes.  Do  yees  iver  see  her 
now,  Pierre?" 

But  Pierre,  looking  at  him,  made  no  answer. 


A  LOVELY  BULLY 

HE  was  seven  feet  and  fat.  He  came  to  Fort  O'Angel 
at  Hudson's  Bay,  an  immense  slip  of  a  lad,  very  much 
in  the  way,  fond  of  horses,  a  wonderful  hand  at  wrest- 
ling, pretending  a  horrible  temper,  threatening  trag- 
edies for  all  who  differed  from  him,  making  the  Fort 
quake  with  his  rich  roar,  and  playing  the  game  of  bully 
with  a  fine  simplicity.  In  winter  he  fattened,  in  sum- 
mer he  sweated,  at  all  times  he  ate  eloquently. 

It  was  a  picture  to  see  him  with  the  undercut  of  a 
haunch  of  deer  or  buffalo,  or  with  a  whole  prairie-fowl 
on  his  plate,  his  eyes  measuring  it  shrewdly,  his  coat 
and  waistcoat  open,  and  a  clear  space  about  him— 
for  he  needed  room  to  stretch  his  mighty  limbs,  and  his 
necessity  was  recognised  by  all. 

Occasionally  he  pretended  to  great  ferocity,  but  scowl 
he  ever  so  much,  a  laugh  kept  idling  in  his  irregular 
bushy  beard,  which  lifted  about  his  face  in  the  wind 
like  a  mane,  or  made  a  kind  of  underbrush  through 
which  his  blunt  fingers  ran  at  hide-and-seek. 

He  was  Irish,  and  his  name  was  Macavoy.  In  later 
days,  when  Fort  O'Angel  was  invaded  by  settlers,  he 
had  his  tune  of  greatest  importance. 

He  had  been  useful  to  the  Chief  Trader  at  the  Fort 
in  the  early  days,  and  having  the  run  of  the  Fort  and 
the  reach  of  his  knife,  was  little  likely  to  discontinue 
his  adherence.  But  he  ate  and  drank  with  all  the 
dwellers  at  the  Post,  and  abused  all  impartially. 

"Malcolm,"  said  he  to  the  Trader,  "Malcolm,  me 
glutton  o'  the  H.B.C.,  that  wants  the  Far  North  for 

13 


14  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

your  footstool — Malcolm,  you  villain,  it's  me  grief  that 
I  know  you,  and  me  thumb  to  me  nose  in  token. " 

Wiley  and  Hatchett,  the  principal  settlers,  he  abused 
right  and  left,  and  said,  "  Wasn't  there  land  in  the  East 
and  West,  that  you  steal  the  country  God  made  for 
honest  men — you  robbers  o'  the  wide  world!  Me  tooth 
on  the  Book,  and  I  tell  you  what,  it's  only  me  charity 
that  kapes  me  from  spoilin'  ye.  For  a  wink  of  me  eye, 
an'  away  you'd  go,  leaving  your  tails  behind  you — and 
pass  that  shoulder  of  bear,  you  pirates,  till  I  come  to  it 
sideways,  like  a  hog  to  war. " 

He  was  even  less  sympathetic  with  Bareback  the 
chief  and  his  braves.  "Sons  o'  Anak  y'are;  here  to- 
day and  away  to-morrow,  like  the  clods  of  the  valley 
— and  that's  your  portion,  Bareback.  It's  the  word  o' 
the  Pentytook — in  pieces  you  go,  like  a  potter's  vessel. 
Don't  shrug  your  shoulders  at  me,  Bareback,  you  pig, 
or  you'll  think  that  Ballzeboob's  loose  on  the  mat. 
But  take  a  sup  o'  this  whisky,  while  you  swear  wid  your 
hand  on  your  chist,  'Amin'  to  the  words  o'  Tun  Mac- 
avoy. " 

Beside  Macavoy,  Pierre,  the  notorious,  was  a  child 
in  height.  Up  to  the  time  of  the  half-breed's  coming 
the  Irishman  had  been  the  most  outstanding  man  at 
Fort  O' Angel,  and  was  sure  of  a  good-natured  homage, 
acknowledged  by  him  with  a  jovial  tyranny. 

Pierre  put  a  flea  in  his  ear.  He  was  pensively  indif- 
ferent to  him  even  hi  his  most  royal  moments.  He 
guessed  the  way  to  bring  down  the  gusto  and  pride  of 
this  Goliath,  but,  for  a  purpose,  he  took  his  own  tune, 
nodding  indolently  to  Macavoy  when  he  met  him,  but 
avoiding  talk  with  him. 

Among  the  Indian  maidens  Macavoy  was  like  a  king 
or  khan;  for  they  count  much  on  bulk  and  beauty,  and 


A  LOVELY  BULLY  15 

he  answered  to  their  standards — especially  to  Wonta's. 
It  was  a  sight  to  see  him  of  a  summer  day,  sitting  in  the 
shade  of  a  pine,  his  shirt  open,  showing  his  firm  brawny 
chest,  his  arms  bare,  his  face  shining  with  perspiration, 
his  big  voice  gurgling  in  his  beard,  his  eyes  rolling  amia- 
bly upon  the  maidens  as  they  passed  or  gathered  near 
demurely,  while  he  declaimed  of  mighty  deeds  in  patois 
or  Chinook  to  the  braves. 

Pierre's  humour  was  of  the  quietest,  most  subter- 
ranean kind.  He  knew  that  Macavoy  had  not  an  evil 
hair  in  his  head;  that  vanity  was  his  greatest  weakness, 
and  that  through  him  there  never  would  have  been  more 
half-breed  population.  There  was  a  tradition  that  he 
had  a  wife  somewhere — based  upon  wild  words  he  had 
once  said  when  under  the  influence  of  bad  liquor;  but 
he  had  roared  his  accuser  the  lie  when  the  thing  was 
imputed  to  him. 

At  Fort  Ste.  Anne  Pierre  had  known  an  old  woman, 
by  name  of  Kitty  Whelan,  whose  character  was  all 
tatters.  She  had  told  him  that  many  years  agone  she 
had  had  a  broth  of  a  lad  for  a  husband;  but  because  of 
a  sharp  word  or  two  across  the  fire,  and  the  toss  of  a 
handful  of  furniture,  he  had  left  her,  and  she  had  seen 
no  more  of  him.  "Tall,  like  a  chimney  he  was,"  said 
she,  "and  a  chest  like  a  wall,  so  broad,  and  a  voice 
like  a  huntsman's  horn,  though  only  a  b'y,  an'  no  hair 
an  his  face;  an'  little  I  know  whether  he  is  dead  or 
alive;  but  dead  belike,  for  he's  sure  to  come  rap  agin' 
somethin'  that'd  kill  him;  for  he,  the  darlin',  was  that 
aisy  and  gentle,  he  wouldn't  pull  his  fightin'  iron  till  he 
had  death  in  his  ribs." 

Pierre  had  drawn  from  her  that  the  name  of  this 
man  whom  she  had  cajoled  into  a  marriage  (being  her- 
self twenty  years  older),  and  driven  to  deserting  her 


16  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

afterwards,  was  Tim  Macavoy.  She  had  married  Mr. 
Whelan  on  the  assumption  that  Macavoy  was  dead. 
But  Mr.  Whelan  had  not  the  nerve  to  desert  her,  and 
so  he  departed  this  life,  very  loudly  lamented  by  Mrs. 
Whelan,  who  had  changed  her  name  with  no  right  to  do 
so.  With  his  going  her  mind  dwelt  greatly  upon  the 
virtues  of  her  mighty  vanished  Tim:  and  ill  would  it 
be  for  Tim  if  she  found  him. 

Pierre  had  travelled  to  Fort  O'Angel  almost  wholly 
because  he  had  Tim  Macavoy  in  his  mind:  hi  it  Mrs. 
Whelan  had  only  an  incidental  part ;  his  plans  journeyed 
beyond  her  and  her  lost  consort.  He  was  determined 
on  an  expedition  to  capture  Fort  Comfort,  which  had 
been  abandoned  by  the  great  Company,  and  was  now 
held  by  a  great  band  of  the  Shunup  Indians. 

Pierre  had  a  taste  for  conquest  for  its  own  sake, 
though  he  had  no  personal  ambition.  The  love  of  ad- 
venture was  deep  in  him;  he  adored  sport  for  its  own 
sake;  he  had  had  a  long  range  of  experiences — some 
discreditable — and  now  he  had  determined  on  a  new 
field  for  his  talent. 

He  would  establish  a  kingdom,  and  resign  it.  In  that 
case  he  must  have  a  man  to  take  his  place.  He  chose 
Macavoy. 

First  he  must  humble  the  giant  to  the  earth,  then 
make  him  into  a  great  man  again,  with  a  new  kind  of 
courage.  The  undoing  of  Macavoy  seemed  a  civic 
virtue.  He  had  a  long  talk  with  Wonta,  the  Indian 
maiden  most  admired  by  Macavoy.  Many  a  time  the 
Irishman  had  cast  an  ogling,  rolling  eye  on  her,  and  had 
talked  his  loudest  within  her  ear-shot,  telling  of  splen- 
did things  he  had  done:  making  himself  like  another 
Samson  as  to  the  destruction  of  men,  and  a  Hercules 
as  to  the  slaying  of  cattle. 


A  LOVELY  BULLY  17 

Wont  a  had  a  sense  of  humour  also,  and  when  Pierre 
told  her  what  was  required  of  her,  she  laughed  with  a 
quick  little  gurgle,  and  showed  as  handsome  a  set  of 
teeth  as  the  half-breed's;  which  said  much  for  her. 
She  promised  to  do  as  he  wished.  So  it  chanced  when 
Macavoy  was  at  his  favourite  seat  beneath  the  pine, 
talking  to  a  gaping  audience,  Wonta  and  a  number  of 
Indian  girls  passed  by.  Pierre  was  leaning  against  a 
door  smoking,  not  far  away.  Macavoy's  voice  became 
louder. 

"'Stand  them  up  wan  by  wan/  says  I,  'and  give 
me  a  leg  loose,  and  a  fist  free;  and  at  that — " 

"At  that  there  was  thunder  and  fire  in  the  sky,  and 
because  the  great  Macavoy  blew  his  breath  over  them 
they  withered  like  the  leaves,"  cried  Wonta,  laughing; 
but  her  laugh  had  an  edge. 

Macavoy  stopped  short,  open-mouthed,  breathing 
hard  in  his  great  beard.  He  was  astonished  at  Wonta's 
raillery;  the  more  so  when  she  presently  snapped  her 
fingers,  and  the  other  maidens,  laughing,  did  the  same. 
Some  of  the  half-breeds  snapped  their  fingers  also  in 
sympathy,  and  shrugged  their  shoulders.  Wonta  came 
up  to  him  softly,  patted  him  on  the  head,  and  said: 
"Like  Macavoy  there  is  nobody.  He  is  a  great  brave. 
He  is  not  afraid  of  a  coyote,  he  has  killed  prairie-hens 
in  numbers  as  pebbles  by  the  lakes.  He  has  a  breast 
like  a  fat  ox," — here  she  touched  the  skin  of  his  broad 
chest, — "and  he  will  die  if  you  do  not  fight  him." 

Then  she  drew  back,  as  though  in  humble  dread, 
and  glided  away  with  the  other  maidens,  Macavoy 
staring  after  her,  with  a  blustering  kind  of  shame  in 
his  face.  The  half-breeds  laughed,  and,  one  by  one, 
they  got  up,  and  walked  away  also.  Macavoy  looked 
round:  there  was  no  one  near  save  Pierre,  whose  eye 


18  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

rested  on  him  lazily.  Macavoy  got  to  his  feet,  mutter- 
ing. This  was  the  first  time  in  his  experience  at  Fort 
O' Angel  that  he  had  been  bluffed — and  by  a  girl;  one 
for  whom  he  had  a  very  soft  place  in  his  big  heart. 
Pierre  came  slowly  over  to  him. 

"I'd  have  it  out  with  her,"  said  he.  "She  called  you 
a  bully  and  a  brag." 

"Out  with  her?"  cried  Macavoy.  "How  can  ye 
have  it  out  wid  a  woman?" 

"Fight  her,"  said  Pierre  pensively. 

"Fight  her?  fight  her?  Holy  smoke!  How  can  you 
fight  a  woman?" 

"Why,  what — do  you — fight?"  asked  Pierre  inno- 
cently. 

Macavoy  grinned  in  a  wild  kind  of  fashion.  "Faith, 
then,  y'are  a  fool.  Bring  on  the  divil  an'  all  his  angels, 
say  I,  and  I'll  fight  thim  where  I  stand." 

Pierre  ran  his  fingers  down  Macavoy's  arm,  and  said : 
"There's  time  enough  for  that.  I'd  begin  with  the  five." 

"What  five,  then?" 

"Her  half-breed  lovers:  Big  Eye,  One  Toe,  Jo- John, 
Saucy  Boy,  and  Limber  Legs." 

"Her  lovers?  Her  lovers,  is  it?  Is  there  truth  on 
y'r  tongue?" 

"Go  to  her  father's  tent  at  sunset,  and  you'll  find 
one  or  all  of  them  there." 

"Oh,  is  that  it?"  said  the  Irishman,  opening  and 
shutting  his  fists.  "Then  I'll  carve  their  hearts  out, 
an'  ate  thim  wan  by  wan  this  night." 

"Come  down  to  Wiley's,"  said  Pierre;  "there's  better 
company  there  than  here." 

Pierre  had  arranged  many  things,  and  had  secured 
partners  in  his  little  scheme  for  humbling  the  braggart. 
He  so  worked  on  the  other's  good  nature  that  by  the 


A  LOVELY  BULLY  19 

time  they  reached  the  settler's  place,  Macavoy  was 
stretching  himself  with  a  big  pride.  Seated  at  Wiley's 
table,  with  Hatchett  and  others  near,  and  drink  going 
about,  someone  drew  the  giant  on  to  talk,  and  so  deftly 
and  with  such  apparent  innocence  did  Pierre,  by  a  word 
here  and  a  nod  there,  encourage  him,  that  presently  he 
roared  at  Wiley  and  Hatchett — 

"Ye  shameless  buccaneers  that  push  your  way  into 
the  tracks  of  honest  men,  where  the  Company's  been 
three  hundred  years  by  the  will  o'  God — if  it  wasn't 
for  me,  ye  Jack  Sheppards — " 

Wiley  and  Hatchett  both  got  to  their  feet  with  pre- 
tended rage,  saying  he'd  insulted  them  both,  that  he 
was  all  froth  and  brawn,  and  giving  him  the  lie. 

Utterly  taken  aback,  Macavoy  could  only  stare, 
puffing  in  his  beard,  and  drawing  in  his  legs,  which  had 
been  spread  out  at  angles.  He  looked  from  Wiley  to 
the  impassive  Pierre.  "Buccaneers,  you  call  us,"  Wiley 
went  on;  "well,  we'll  have  no  more  of  that,  or  there'll 
be  trouble  at  Fort  0' Angel." 

"Ah,  sure  y'are  only  jokin',"  said  Macavoy,  "for  I 
love  ye,  ye  scoundrels.  It's  only  me  fun." 

"For  fun  like  that  you'll  pay,  ruffian!"  said  Hatchett, 
bringing  down  his  fist  on  the  table  with  a  bang. 

Macavoy  stood  up.  He  looked  confounded,  but  there 
was  nothing  of  the  coward  hi  his  face.  "Oh,  well," 
said  he,  "I'll  be  goin',  for  ye've  got  y'r  teeth  all  raspin'." 

As  he  went  the  two  men  laughed  after  him  mock- 
ingly. "Wind  like  a  bag,"  said  Hatchett.  "Bone  like 
a  marrow-fat  pea,"  added  Wiley. 

Macavoy  was  at  the  door,  but  at  that  he  turned. 
"If  ye  care  to  sail  agin'  that  wind,  an'  gnaw  on  that 
bone,  I'd  not  be  sayin'  you  no." 

"Will  to-night  do— at  sunset?"  said  Wiley. 


20  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"Bedad,  then,  me  b'ys,  sunset'll  do — an'  not  more 
than  two  at  a  tune,"  he  added  softly,  all  the  roar  gone 
from  his  throat.  Then  he  went  out,  followed  by  Pierre. 

Hatchett  and  Wiley  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed 
a  little  confusedly.  " What's  that  he  said?"  muttered 
Wiley.  "Not  more  than  two  at  a  time,  was  it?" 

"That  was  it.  I  don't  know  that  it's  what  we  bar- 
gained for,  after  all."  He  looked  round  on  the  other 
settlers  present,  who  had  been  awed  by  the  childlike, 
earnest  note  in  Macavoy's  last  words.  They  shook 
their  heads  now  a  little  sagely;  they  weren't  so  sure 
that  Pierre's  little  game  was  so  jovial  as  it  had  promised. 

Even  Pierre  had  hardly  looked  for  so  much  from  his 
giant  as  yet.  In  a  little  while  he  had  got  Macavoy  back 
to  his  old  humour. 

"What  was  I  made  for  but  war!"  said  the  Irishman, 
"an'  by  war  to  kape  thim  at  peace,  wherever  I  am." 

Soon  he  was  sufficiently  restored  in  spirits  to  go  with 
Pierre  to  Bareback's  lodge,  where,  sitting  at  the  tent 
door,  with  idlers  about,  he  smoked  with  the  chief  and 
his  braves.  Again  Pierre  worked  upon  him  adroitly, 
and  again  he  became  loud  in  speech,  and  grandly 
patronising. 

"I've  stood  by  ye  like  a  father,  ye  loafers,"  he  said, 
"an'  I  give  you  my  word,  ye  howlin'  rogues — " 

Here  Bareback  and  a  half-dozen  braves  came  up 
suddenly  from  the  ground,  and  the  chief  said  fiercely: 
"You  speak  crooked  things.  We  are  no  rogues.  We 
will  fight." 

Macavoy's  face  ran  red  to  his  hair.  He  scratched  his 
head  a  little  foolishly,  and  gathered  himself  up.  "Sure, 
'twas  only  me  tasin',  darlins,"  he  said,  "but  I'll  be 
comin'  again,  when  y'are  not  so  narvis."  He  turned 
to  go  away. 


A  LOVELY  BULLY  21 

Pierre  made  a  sign  to  Bareback,  and  the  Indian 
touched  the  giant  on  the  arm.  "Will  you  fight?"  said 
he. 

"Not  all  o'  ye  at  once,"  said  Macavoy  slowly,  running 
his  eye  carefully  along  the  half-dozen;  "not  more  than 
three  at  a  toime,"  he  added  with  a  simple  sincerity,  his 
voice  again  gone  like  the  dove's.  "At  what  time  will 
it  be  convaynyint  for  ye?"  he  asked. 

"At  sunset,"  said  the  chief,  "before  the  Fort." 

Macavoy  nodded  and  walked  away  with  Pierre, 
whose  glance  of  approval  at  the  Indians  did  not  make 
them  thoroughly  happy. 

To  rouse  the  giant  was  not  now  so  easy.  He  had  al- 
ready three  engagements  of  violence  for  sunset.  Pierre 
directed  their  steps  by  a  roundabout  to  the  Company's 
stores,  and  again  there  was  a  distinct  improvement  in 
the  giant's  spirits.  Here  at  least  he  could  be  himself, 
he  thought,  here  no  one  should  say  him  nay.  As  if 
nerved  by  the  idea,  he  plunged  at  once  into  boisterous 
raillery  of  the  Chief  Trader.  "Oh,  ho,"  he  began,  "me 
freebooter,  me  captain  av  the  looters  av  the  North!" 

The  Trader  snarled  at  him.  "What  d'ye  mean,  by 
such  talk  to  me,  sir?  I've  had  enough — we've  all  had 
enough — of  your  brag  and  bounce;  for  you're  all  sweat 
and  swill-pipe,  and  I  give  you  this  for  your  chewing, 
that  though  by  the  Company's  rules  I  can't  go  out  and 
fight  you,  you  may  have  your  pick  of  my  men  for  it. 
I'll  take  my  pay  for  your  insults  in  pounded  flesh — Irish 
pemmican!" 

Macavoy's  face  became  mottled  with  sudden  rage. 
He  roared,  as,  perhaps,  he  had  never  roared  before — 

"Are  ye  all  gone  mad — mad — mad?  I  was  jokin'  wid 
ye,  whin  I  called  ye  this  or  that.  But  by  the  swill  o' 
me  pipe,  and  the  sweat  o'  me  skin,  I'll  drink  the  blood 


22  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

o'  yees,  Trader,  me  darlin'.  An'  all  I'll  ask  is,  that  ye 
mate  me  to-night  whin  the  rest  o'  the  pack  is  in  front 
o'  the  Fort — but  not  more  than  four  o'  yees  at  a  time— 
for  little  scrawney  rats  as  y'are,  too  many  o'  yees  wad 
be  in  me  way."  He  wheeled  and  strode  fiercely  out. 
Pierre  smiled  gently. 

"He's  a  great  bully  that,  isn't  he,  Trader?  There'll 
be  fun  in  front  of  the  Fort  to-night.  For  he's  only 
bragging,  of  course — eh?" 

The  Trader  nodded  with  no  great  assurance,  and  then 
Pierre  said  as  a  parting  word:  "You'll  be  there,  of 
course — only  four  av  ye!"  and  hurried  out  after  Mac- 
avoy,  humming  to  himself — 

"For  the  King  said  this,  and  the  Queen  said  that, 
But  he  walked  away  with  their  army,  O!" 

So  far  Pierre's  plan  had  worked  even  better  than  he 
expected,  though  Macavoy's  moods  had  not  been  alto- 
gether after  his  imaginings.  He  drew  alongside  the 
giant,  who  had  suddenly  grown  quiet  again.  Macavoy 
turned  and  looked  down  at  Pierre  with  the  candour  of  a 
schoolboy,  and  his  voice  was  very  low — 

"It's  a  long  time  ago,  I'm  thinkin',"  he  said,  "since 
I  lost  me  frinds — ages  an'  ages  ago.  For  me  frinds  are 
me  inimies  now,  an'  that  makes  a  man  old.  But  I'll 
not  say  that  it  cripples  his  arm  or  humbles  his  back." 
He  drew  his  arm  up  once  or  twice  and  shot  it  out  straight 
into  the  air  like  a  catapult.  "It's  all  right,"  he  added, 
very  softly,  "an',  Half-breed,  me  b'y,  if  me  frinds  have 
turned  inimies,  why,  I'm  thinkin'  me  inimy  has  turned 
frind,  for  that  I'm  sure  you  were,  an'  this  I'm  certain 
y'are.  So  here's  the  grip  av  me  fist,  an'  y'll  have  it." 

Pierre  remembered  that  disconcerting,  iron  grip  of 


23 

friendship  for  many  a  day.  He  laughed  to  himself  to 
think  how  he  was  turning  the  braggart  into  a  warrior. 

"Well,"  said  Pierre,  "what  about  those  five  at 
Wonta's  tent?" 

"I'll  be  there  whin  the  sun  dips  below  the  Little  Red 
Hill,"  he  said,  as  though  his  thoughts  were  far  away, 
and  he  turned  his  face  towards  Wonta's  tent.  Presently 
he  laughed  out  loud.  "It's  manny  a  long  day,"  he  said, 
"since—" 

Then  he  changed  his  thoughts.  "They've  spoke 
sharp  words  in  me  teeth,"  he  continued,  "and  they'll 
pay  for  it.  Bounce!  sweat!  brag!  wind!  is  it?  There's 
dancin'  beyant  this  night,  me  darlins!" 

"Are  you  sure  you'll  not  run  away  when  they  come 
on?"  said  Pierre,  a  little  ironically. 

"Is  that  the  word  av  a  frind?"  replied  Macavoy, 
a  hand  fumbling  in  his  hair. 

"Did  you  never  run  away  when  faced?"  Pierre  asked 
pitilessly. 

"I  never  turned  tail  from  a  man,  though,  to  be  sure, 
it's  been  more  talk  than  fight  up  here:  Fort  Ste.  Anne's 
been  but  a  graveyard  for  fun  these  years." 

"Eh,  well,"  persisted  Pierre,  "but  did  you  never  turn 
tail  from  a  slip  of  a  woman?" 

The  thing  was  said  idly.  Macavoy  gathered  his 
beard  in  his  mouth,  chewing  it  confusedly.  "You've 
a  keen  tongue  for  a  question,"  was  his  reply.  "What 
for  should  anny  man  run  from  a  woman?  " 

"When  the  furniture  flies,  an'  the  woman  knows  more 
of  the  world  in  a  day  than  the  man  does  in  a  year; 
and  the  man's  a  hulking  bit  of  an  Irishman — Hen,  then 
things  are  so  and  so!" 

Macavoy  drew  back  dazed,  his  big  legs  trembling. 
"Come  into  the  shade  of  these  maples,"  said  Pierre* 


24  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"for  the  sun  has  set  you  quaking  a  little,"  and  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  take  Macavoy's  arm. 

The  giant  drew  away  from  the  hand,  but  walked  on 
to  the  trees.  His  face  seemed  to  have  grown  older  by 
years  on  the  moment.  "What's  this  y'are  sayin'  to 
me?"  he  asked  hoarsely.  "What  do  you  know  av — av 
that  woman?" 

"Malahide  is  a  long  way  off,"  said  Pierre,  "but  when 
one  travels  why  shouldn't  the  other?" 

Macavoy  made  a  helpless  motion  with  his  lumbering 
hand.  "Mother  o'  saints,"  he  said,  "has  it  come  to 
that,  after  all  these  years?  Is  she — tell  me  where  she 
is,  me  frind,  and  you'll  niver  want  an  arm  to  fight  for 
ye,  an'  the  half  av  a  blanket,  while  I  have  wan!" 

"But  you'll  run  as  you  did  before,  if  I  tell  you,  an' 
there'll  be  no  fighting  to-night,  accordin'  to  the  word 
you've  given." 

"No  fightin',  did  ye  say?  an'  run  away,  is  it?  Then 
this  in  your  eye,  that  if  ye'll  bring  an  army,  I'll  fight 
till  the  skin  is  in  rags  on  me  bones,  whin  it's  only  men 
that's  before  me;  but  womin — and  that  wan!  Faith,  I'd 
run,  I'm  thinkin',  as  I  did,  you  know  when — Don't 
tell  me  that  she's  here,  man;  arrah,  don't  say  that!" 

There  was  something  pitiful  and  childlike  hi  the  big 
man's  voice,  so  much  so  that  Pierre,  calculating  game- 
ster as  he  was,  and  working  upon  him  as  he  had  been 
for  many  weeks,  felt  a  sudden  pity,  and  dropping  his 
fingers  on  the  other's  arm,  said:  "No,  Macavoy,  my 
friend,  she  is  not  here;  but  she  is  at  Fort  Ste.  Anne 
— or  was  when  I  left  there." 

Macavoy  groaned.  "Does  she  know  that  I'm  here? " 
he  asked. 

"I  think  not.  Fort  Ste.  Anne  is  far  away,  and  she 
may  not  hear." 


A  LOVELY  BULLY  25 

"What— what  is  she  doing?" 

"Keeping  your  memory  and  Mr.  Whelan's  green." 
Then  Pierre  told  him  somewhat  bluntly  what  he  knew 
of  Mrs.  Macavoy. 

"I'd  rather  face  Ballzeboob  himself  than  her,"  said 
Macavoy.  "An'  she's  sure  to  find  me." 

"Not  if  you  do  as  I  say." 

"An'  what  is  it  ye  say,  little  man?" 

"Come  away  with  me  where  she'll  not  find  you." 

"An'  where's  that,  Pierre  darlin'?" 

"I'll  tell  you  that  when  to-night's  fighting's  over. 
Have  you  a  mind  for  Wonta?"  he  continued. 

"I've  a  mind  for  Wonta  an'  many  another  as  fine, 
but  I'm  a  married  man,"  he  said,  "by  priest  an'  by 
book;  an'  I  can't  forget  that,  though  the  woman's  to 
me  as  the  pit  below." 

Pierre  looked  curiously  at  him.  "You're  a  wonder- 
ful fool,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  not  sure  that  I  like  you  less 
for  that.  There  was  Shon  M'Gann — but  it  is  no  mat- 
ter." He  sighed  and  continued:  "When  to-night  is 
over,  you  shall  have  work  and  fun  that  you've  been 
fattening  for  this  many  a  year,  and  the  woman'll  not 
find  you,  be  sure  of  that.  Besides — "  he  whispered  in 
Macavoy's  ear. 

"Poor  divil,  poor  divil,  she'd  always  a  throat  for 
that;  but  it's  a  horrible  death  to  die,  I'm  thinkin'." 
Macavoy's  chin  dropped  on  his  breast. 

When  the  sun  was  falling  below  Little  Red  Hill, 
Macavoy  came  to  Wonta's  tent.  Pierre  was  not  far 
away.  What  occurred  in  the  tent  Pierre  never  quite 
knew,  but  presently  he  saw  Wonta  run  out  in  a  fright- 
ened way,  followed  by  the  five  half-breeds,  who  carried 
themselves  awkwardly.  Behind  them  again,  with  head 
shaking  from  one  side  to  the  other,  travelled  Macavoy; 


26  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

and  they  all  marched  away  towards  the  Fort.  "Well," 
said  Pierre  to  Wonta,  "he  is  amusing,  eh? — so  big  a 
coward,  eh?" 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "you  are  wrong.  He  is  no 
coward.  He  is  a  great  brave.  He  spoke  like  a  little 
child,  but  he  said  he  would  fight  them  all  when — " 

"When  then*  turn  came,"  interposed  Pierre,  with  a 
fine  "bead"  of  humour  in  his  voice;  "well,  you  see  he 
has  much  to  do."  He  pointed  towards  the  Fort,  where 
people  were  gathering  fast.  The  strange  news  had  gone 
abroad,  and  the  settlement,  laughing  joyously,  came  to 
see  Macavoy  swagger;  they  did  not  think  there  would 
be  fighting. 

Those  whom  Macavoy  had  challenged  were  not  so 
sure.  When  the  giant  reached  the  open  space  in  front 
of  the  Fort,  he  looked  slowly  round  him.  A  great  change 
had  come  over  him.  His  skin  seemed  drawn  together 
more  firmly,  and  running  himself  up  finely  to  his  full 
height,  he  looked  no  longer  the  lounging  braggart. 
Pierre  measured  him  with  his  eye,  and  chuckled  to 
himself.  Macavoy  stripped  himself  of  his  coat  and 
waistcoat,  and  rolled  up  his  sleeves.  His  shirt  was 
flying  at  the  chest. 

He  beckoned  to  Pierre. 

"Are  you  standin'  me  frind  in  this?"  he  said. 

"Now  and  after,"  said  Pierre. 

His  voice  was  very  simple.  "I  never  felt  as  I  do  since 
the  day  the  coast-guardsmin  dropped  on  me  in  Ireland 
far  away,  an'  I  drew  blood  an  every  wan  o'  them — fine 
beautiful  b'ys  they  looked — stretchin'  out  on  the  ground 
wan  by  wan.  D'ye  know  the  double-an'-twist?"  he 
suddenly  added,  "for  it's  a  honey  trick  whin  they  gather 
in  an  you,  an'  you  can't  be  layin'  out  wid  yer  fists. 
It  plays  the  divil  wid  the  spines  av  thim.  Will  ye 


A  LOVELY  BULLY  27 

have  a  drop  av  drink — cold  water,  man — near,  an'  a 
sponge  betune  whiles?  For  there's  manny  in  the  play 
— makin'  up  for  lost  tune.  Come  on,"  he  added  to  the 
two  settlers,  who  stood  not  far  away,  "for  ye  began  the 
trouble,  an'  we'll  settle  accordin'  to  a,  b,  c." 

Wiley  and  Hatchett  were  there.  Responding  to  his 
call,  they  stepped  forward,  though  they  had  now  little 
relish  for  the  matter.  They  were  pale,  but  they  stripped 
their  coats  and  waistcoats,  and  Wiley  stepped  bravely 
in  front  of  Macavoy.  The  giant  looked  down  on  him, 
arms  folded.  "I  said  two  of  you,"  he  crooned,  as  if 
speaking  to  a  woman.  Hatchett  stepped  forward  also. 
An  instant  after  the  settlers  were  lying  on  the  ground 
at  different  angles,  bruised  and  dismayed,  and  little 
likely  to  carry  on  the  war.  Macavoy  took  a  pail  of 
water  from  the  ground,  drank  from  it  lightly,  and 
waited.  None  other  of  his  opponents  stirred.  "  There's 
three  Injins,"  he  said,  "three  rid  divils,  that  wants 
showin'  the  way  to  their  happy  huntin'  grounds.  .  .  . 
Sure,  y'are  comin',  ain't  you,  me  darlins?"  he  added 
coaxingly,  and  he  stretched  himself,  as  if  to  make 
ready. 

Bareback,  the  chief,  now  harangued  the  three  Indians, 
and  they  stepped  forth  warily.  They  had  determined 
on  strategic  wrestling,  and  not  on  the  instant  activity 
of  fists.  But  their  wiliness  was  useless,  for  Macavoy's 
double-and-twist  came  near  to  lessening  the  Indian  pop- 
ulation of  Fort  0' Angel.  It  only  broke  a  leg  and  an  arm, 
however.  The  Irishman  came  out  of  the  tangle  of 
battle  with  a  wild  kind  of  light  in  his  eye,  his  beard  all 
torn,  and  face  battered.  A  shout  of  laughter,  admira- 
tion and  wonder  went  up  from  the  crowd.  There  was 
a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Macavoy,  whose  blood  ran 
high,  stood  forth  again.  The  Trader  came  to  him. 


28  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"Must  this  go  on?"  he  said;  "haven't  you  had  your 
fill  of  it?" 

Had  he  touched  Macavoy  with  a  word  of  humour  the 
matter  might  have  ended  there;  but  now  the  giant 
spoke  loud,  so  all  could  hear. 

"Had  me  fill  av  it,  Trader,  me  angel?  I'm  only 
gittin'  the  taste  av  it.  An'  ye'll  plaze  bring  on  yer  men 
— four  it  was — for  the  feed  av  Irish  pemmican." 

The  Trader  turned  and  swore  at  Pierre,  who  smiled 
enigmatically.  Soon  after,  two  of  the  best  fighters  of 
the  Company's  men  stood  forth.  Macavoy  shook  his 
head.  "Four,  I  said,  an'  four  I'll  have,  or  I'll  ate 
the  heads  aff  these." 

Shamed,  the  Trader  sent  forth  two  more.  All  on  an 
instant  the  four  made  a  rush  on  the  giant;  and  there 
was  a  stiff  minute  after,  hi  which  it  was  not  clear  that 
he  was  happy.  Blows  rattled  on  him,  and  one  or  two 
he  got  on  the  head,  just  as  he  tossed  a  man  spinning 
senseless  across  the  grass,  which  sent  him  staggering 
backwards  for  a  moment,  sick  and  stunned. 

Pierre  called  over  to  him  swiftly:  "Remember  Mala- 
hide!" 

This  acted  on  him  like  a  charm.  There  never  was 
seen  such  a  shattered  bundle  of  men  as  came  out  from 
his  hands  a  few  minutes  later.  As  for  himself ,  he  had 
but  a  rag  or  two  on  him,  but  stood  unmindful  of  his 
state,  and  the  fever  of  battle  untameable  on  him.  The 
women  drew  away. 

"Now,  me  babes  o'  the  wood,"  he  shouted,  "that 
sit  at  the  feet  av  the  finest  Injin  woman  in  the  North, 
—though  she's  no  frind  o'  mine — and  aren't  fit  to  kiss 
her  moccasin,  come  an  wid  you,  till  I  have  me  fun 
wid  your  spines." 

But  a  shout  went  up,  and  the  crowd  pointed.    There 


A  LOVELY  BULLY  29 

were  the  five  half-breeds  running  away  across  the 
plains. 

The  game  was  over. 

"Here's  some  clothes,  man;  for  Heaven's  sake  put 
them  on,"  said  the  Trader. 

Then  the  giant  became  conscious  of  his  condition, 
and  like  a  timid  girl  he  hurried  into  the  clothing. 

The  crowd  would  have  carried  him  on  their  shoul- 
ders, but  he  would  have  none  of  it. 

"I've  only  wan  frind  here,"  he  said,  "an'  it's 
Pierre,  an'  to  his  shanty  I  go  an'  no  other." 

"Come,  mon  ami,"  said  Pierre,  "for  to-morrow  we 
travel  far." 

"And  what  for  that?"  said  Macavoy. 

Pierre  whispered  in  his  ear:  "To  make  you  a  king, 
my  lovely  bully." 


THE  FILIBUSTER 

PIERRE  had  determined  to  establish  a  kingdom,  not 
for  gain,  but  for  conquest's  sake.  But  because  he 
knew  that  the  thing  would  pall,  he  took  with  him 
Macavoy  the  giant,  to  make  him  king  instead.  But 
first  he  made  Macavoy  from  a  lovely  bully,  a  bulk  of 
good-natured  brag,  into  a  Hercules  of  fight;  for,  hav- 
ing made  him  insult — and  be  insulted  by — near  a  score 
of  men  at  Fort  O'Angel,  he  also  made  him  fight  them 
by  twos,  threes,  and  fours,  all  on  a  summer's  evening, 
and  send  them  away  broken.  Macavoy  would  have 
hesitated  to  go  with  Pierre,  were  it  not  that  he  feared 
a  woman.  Not  that  he  had  wronged  her;  she  had 
wronged  him:  she  had  married  him.  And  the  fear  of 
one's  own  wife  is  the  worst  fear  in  the  world. 

But  though  his  heart  went  out  to  women,  and  his 
tongue  was  of  the  race  that  beguiles,  he  stood  to  his 
"lines"  like  a  man,  and  people  wondered.  Even 
Wonta,  the  daughter  of  Foot-in-the-Sun,  only  bent 
him,  she  could  not  break  him  to  her  will.  Pierre 
turned  her  shy  coaxing  into  irony — that  was  on  the 
day  when  all  Fort  O'Angel  conspired  to  prove  Macavoy 
a  child  and  not  a  warrior.  But  when  she  saw  what 
she  had  done,  and  that  the  giant  was  greater  than  his 
years  of  brag,  she  repented,  and  hung  a  dead  coyote 
at  Pierre's  door  as  a  sign  of  her  contempt. 

Pierre  watched  Macavoy,  sitting  with  a  sponge  of 
vinegar  to  his  head,  for  he  had  had  nasty  joltings  in 
his  great  fight.  A  little  laugh  came  crinkling  up  to 
the  half-breed's  lips,  but  dissolved  into  silence. 

30 


THE  FILIBUSTER  31 

"We'll  start  in  the  morning,"  he  said. 

Macavoy  looked  up.  "Whin  you  plaze;  but  a 
word  hi  your  ear;  are  you  sure  she'll  not  follow  us?" 

"She  doesn't  know.  Fort  Ste.  Anne  is  in  the  south, 
and  Fort  Comfort,  where  we  go,  is  far  north." 

"But  if  she  kem!"  the  big  man  persisted. 

"You  will  be  a  king;  you  can  do  as  other  kings  have 
done."  Pierre  chuckled. 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "Says  Father  Nolan  to 
me,  says  he,  '  'tis  till  death  us  do  part,  an'  no  man  put 
asunder ' ;  an'  I'll  stand  by  that,  though  I'd  slice  out 
the  bist  tin  years  av  me  life,  it  I  niver  saw  her  face 
again." 

"But  the  girl,  Wonta — what  a  queen  she'd  make!" 

"Marry  her  yourself,  and  be  king  yourself,  and  be 
damned  to  you!  For  she,  like  the  rest,  laughed  in  me 
face,  whin  I  told  thim  of  the  day  whin  I — " 

"That's  nothing.  She  hung  a  dead  coyote  at  my 
door.  You  don't  know  women.  There'll  be  your 
breed  and  hers  abroad  in  the  land  one  day." 

Macavoy  stretched  to  his  feet — he  was  so  tall  that 
he  could  not  stand  upright  in  the  room.  He  towered 
over  Pierre,  who  blandly  eyed  him.  "I've  another 
word  for  your  ear,"  he  said  darkly.  "Keep  clear  av 
the  likes  o'  that  wid  me.  For  I've  swallowed  a  tribe 
av  divils.  It's  fightin'  you  want.  Well,  I'll  do  it — 
I've  an  itch  for  the  throats  av  men,  but  a  fool  I'll  be 
no  more  wid  wimin,  white  or  red — that  hell-cat  that 
spoilt  me  life  an'  killed  me  child,  or — " 

A  sob  clutched  him  in  the  throat. 

"You  had  a  child,  then?"  asked  Pierre  gently. 

"An  angel  she  was,  wid  hair  like  the  sun,  an'  'd 
melt  the  heart  av  an  iron  god :  none  like  her  above  or 
below.  But  the  mother,  ah,  the  mother  of  her!  One 


32  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

day  whin  she'd  said  a  sharp  word,  wid  another  from 
me,  an'  the  child  clinging  to  her  dress,  she  turned 
quick  and  struck  it,  meanin'  to  anger  me.  Not  so 
hard  the  blow  was,  but  it  sent  the  darlin's  head  agin' 
the  chimney-stone,  and  that  was  the  end  av  it.  For 
she  took  to  her  bed,  an'  agin'  the  crowin'  o'  the  cock 
wan  midnight,  she  gives  a  little  cry  an'  snatched  at  me 
beard.  'Daddy,'  says  she,  'daddy,  it  hurts!'  An' 
thin  she  floats  away,  wid  a  stitch  av  pain  at  her  lips." 

Macavoy  sat  down  now,  his  fingers  fumbling  in  his 
beard.  Pierre  was  uncomfortable.  He  could  hear  of 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death  unmoved — it  seemed 
to  him  in  the  game;  but  the  tragedy  of  a  child,  a  mere 
counter  yet  in  the  play  of  life — that  was  different.  He 
slid  a  hand  over  the  table,  and  caught  Macavoy's  arm. 

"Poor  little  waif!"  he  said. 

Macavoy  gave  the  hand  a  grasp  that  turned  Pierre 
sick,  and  asked:  "Had  ye  iver  a  child  av  y'r  own, 
Pierre — iver  wan  at  all?  " 

"Never,"  said  Pierre  dreamily,  "and  I've  travelled 
far.  A  child — a  child — is  a  wonderful  thing.  .  .  . 
Poor  little  waif!" 

They  both  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Pierre  was 
about  to  rise,  but  Macavoy  suddenly  pinned  him  to 
his  seat  with  this  question:  "Did  y'  iver  have  a  wife, 
thin,  Pierre?" 

Pierre  turned  pale.  A  sharp  breath  came  through 
his  teeth.  He  spoke  slowly:  "Yes,  once." 

"And  she  died?"  asked  the  other,  awed. 

"We  all  have  our  day,"  he  replied  enigmatically, 
"and  there  are  worse  things  than  death.  .  .  .  Eh, 
well,  mon  ami,  let  us  talk  of  other  things.  To-morrow 
we  go  to  conquer.  I  know  where  I  can  get  five  men  I 
want.  I  have  ammunition  and  dogs." 


THE  FILIBUSTER  33 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  Pierre  was  busy  in  the 
settlement.  At  the  Fort  he  heard  strange  news.  A 
new  batch  of  settlers  was  coming  from  the  south,  and 
among  them  was  an  old  Irishwoman  who  called  her- 
self now  Mrs.  Whelan,  now  Mrs.  Macavoy.  She 
talked  much  of  the  lad  she  wras  to  find,  one  Tun  Mac- 
avoy, whose  fame  Gossip  had  brought  to  her  at  last. 

She  had  clung  on  to  the  settlers,  and  they  could  not 
shake  her  off.  "She  was  comin',"  she  said,  "to  her 
own  darlin'  b'y,  from  whom  she'd  been  parted  manny 
a  year,  believin'  him  dead,  or  Tom  Whelan  had  nivir 
touched  hand  o'  hers." 

The  bearer  of  the  news  had  but  just  arrived,  and 
he  told  it  only  to  the  Chief  Trader  and  Pierre.  At  a 
word  from  Pierre  the  man  promised  to  hold  his  peace. 
Then  Pierre  went  to  Wonta's  lodge.  He  found  her 
with  her  father  alone,  her  head  at  her  knees.  When 
she  heard  his  voice  she  looked  up  sharply,  and  added 
a  sharp  word  also. 

"Wait,"  he  said;  "women  are  such  fools.  You 
snapped  your  fingers  in  his  face,  and  laughed  at  him. 
Bien,  that  is  nothing.  He  has  proved  himself  great. 
That  is  something.  He  will  be  greater  still,  if  the 
other  woman  does  not  find  him.  She  should  die,  but 
then  some  women  have  no  sense." 

"The  other  woman!"  said  Wonta,  starting  to  her 
feet;  "who  is  the  other  woman?" 

Old  Foot-in-the-Sun  waked  and  sat  up,  but  seeing 
that  it  was  Pierre,  dropped  again  to  sleep.  Pierre,  he 
knew,  was  no  peril  to  any  woman.  Besides,  Wonta 
hated  the  half-breed,  as  he  thought. 

Pierre  told  the  girl  the  story  of  Macavoy 's  life;  for 
he  knew  that  she  loved  the  man  after  her  heathen 
fashion,  and  that  she  could  be  trusted. 


34  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"I  do  not  care  for  that,"  she  said,  when  he  had 
finished;  "it  is  nothing.  I  would  go  with  him.  I 
should  be  his  wife,  the  other  should  die.  I  would  kill 
her,  if  she  would  fight  me.  I  know  the  way  of  knives, 
or  a  rifle,  or  a  pinch  at  the  throat — she  should  die!" 

"Yes,  but  that  will  not  do.  Keep  your  hands  free 
of  her." 

Then  he  told  her  that  they  were  going  away.  She 
said  she  would  go  also.  He  said  no  to  that,  but  told 
her  to  wait  and  he  would  come  back  for  her. 

Though  she  tried  hard  to  follow  them,  they  slipped 
away  from  the  Fort  in  the  moist  gloom  of  the  morning, 
the  brown  grass  rustling,  the  prairie-hens  fluttering, 
the  osiers  soughing  as  they  passed,  the  Spirit  of  the 
North,  ever  hungry,  drawing  them  on  over  the  long 
Divides.  They  did  not  see  each  other's  faces  till  dawn. 
They  were  guided  by  Pierre's  voice;  none  knew  his 
comrades.  Besides  Pierre  and  Macavoy,  there  were 
five  half-breeds — Noel,  Little  Babiche,  Corvette,  Jose", 
and  Jacques  Parfaite.  When  they  came  to  recognise 
each  other,  they  shook  hands,  and  marched  on.  In 
good  time  they  reached  that  wonderful  and  pleasant 
country  between  the  Barren  Grounds  and  the  Lake  of 
Silver  Shallows.  To  the  north  of  it  was  Fort  Comfort, 
which  they  had  come  to  take.  Macavoy's  rich  voice 
roared  as  of  old,  before  his  valour  was  questioned — and 
maintained — at  Fort  O'Angel.  Pierre  had  diverted  his 
mind  from  the  woman  who,  at  Fort  O'Angel,  was  even 
now  calling  heaven  and  earth  to  witness  that  "Tim 
Macavoy  was  her  Macavoy  and  no  other,  an'  she'd 
find  him — the  divil  and  darlin',  wid  an  arm  like  Broin 
Borhoime,  an'  a  chest  you  could  build  a  house  on — if 
she  walked  till  Doomsday!" 

Macavoy  stood  out  grandly,  his  fat  all  gone  to 


THE  FILIBUSTER  35 

muscle,  blowing  through  his  beard,  puffing  his  cheek, 
and  ready  with  tale  or  song.  But  now  that  they  were 
facing  the  business  of  their  journey,  his  voice  got  soft 
and  gentle,  as  it  did  before  the  Fort,  when  he  grappled 
his  foes  two  by  two  and  three  by  three,  and  wrung 
them  out.  In  his  eyes  there  was  the  thing  which  counts 
as  many  men  in  any  soldier's  sight,  when  he  leads  in 
battle.  As  he  said  himself,  he  was  made  for  war,  like 
Malachi  o'  the  Golden  Collar. 

Pierre  guessed  that  just  now  many  of  the  Indians 
would  be  away  for  the  summer  hunt,  and  that  the 
Fort  would  perhaps  be  held  by  only  a  few  score  of 
braves,  who,  however,  would  fight  when  they  might 
easier  play.  He  had  no  useless  compunctions  about 
bloodshed.  A  human  life  he  held  to  be  a  trifle  in  the 
big  sum  of  time,  and  that  it  was  of  little  moment  when 
a  man  went,  if  it  seemed  his  hour.  He  lived  up  to  his 
creed,  for  he  had  ever  held  his  own  life  as  a  bird  upon 
a  housetop,  which  a  chance  stone  might  drop. 

He  was  glad  afterwards  that  he  had  decided  to  fight, 
for  there  was  one  hi  Fort  Comfort  against  whom  he 
had  an  old  grudge — the  Indian,  Young  Eye,  who, 
many  years  before,  had  been  one  to  help  in  killing  the 
good  Father  Halen,  the  priest  who  dropped  the  water 
on  his  forehead  and  set  the  cross  on  top  of  that,  when 
he  was  at  his  mother's  breasts.  One  by  one  the  mur- 
derers had  been  killed,  save  this  man.  He  had  wan- 
dered north,  lived  on  the  Coppermine  River  for  a  long 
time,  and  at  length  had  come  down  among  the  warring 
tribes  at  the  Lake  of  Silver  Shallows. 

Pierre  was  for  direct  attack.  They  crossed  the  lake 
in  their  canoes,  at  a  point  about  five  miles  from  the 
Fort,  and,  so  far  as  they  could  tell,  without  being  seen. 
Then  ammunition  went  round,  and  they  marched  upon 


36  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

the  Fort.  Pierre  eyed  Macavoy — measured  him,  as  it 
were,  for  what  he  was  worth.  The  giant  seemed  happy. 
He  was  humming  a  tune  softly  through  his  beard. 

Suddenly  Jose  paused,  dropped  to  the  foot  of  a 
pine,  and  put  his  ear  to  it.  Pierre  understood.  He 
had  caught  at  the  same  thing.  "There  is  a  dance  on," 
said  Jose",  "I  can  hear  the  drum." 

Pierre  thought  a  minute.  "We  will  reconnoitre," 
he  said  presently. 

"It  is  near  night  now,"  remarked  Little  Babiche. 
"I  know  something  of  these.  When  they  have  a  great 
snake  dance  at  night,  strange  things  happen."  Then 
he  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to  Pierre. 

They  halted  hi  the  bush,  and  Little  Babiche  went 
forward  to  spy  upon  the  Fort.  He  came  back  just 
after  sunset,  reporting  that  the  Indians  were  feasting. 
He  had  crept  near,  and  had  learned  that  the  braves 
were  expected  back  from  the  hunt  that  night,  and  that 
the  feast  was  for  their  welcome. 

The  Fort  stood  hi  an  open  space,  with  tall  trees  for  a 
background.  In  front,  here  and  there,  were  juniper 
and  tamarac  bushes.  Pierre  laid  his  plans  immediately, 
and  gave  the  word  to  move  on.  Then:  presence  had 
not  been  discovered,  and  if  they  could  but  surprise  the 
Indians  the  Fort  might  easily  be  theirs.  They  made 
a  de'tour,  and  after  an  hour  came  upon  the  Fort  from 
behind.  Pierre  himself  went  forward  cautiously,  leav- 
ing Macavoy  in  command.  When  he  came  again  he 
said: 

"It's  a  fine  sight,  and  the  way  is  open.  They  are 
feasting  and  dancing.  If  we  can  enter  without  being 
seen,  we  are  safe,  except  for  food;  we  must  trust  for 
that.  Come  on." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  margin  of  the  woods  a 


THE  FILIBUSTER  37 

wonderful  scene  was  before  them.  A  volcanic  hill  rose 
up  on  one  side,  gloomy  and  stern,  but  the  reflection 
of  the  fires  reached  it,  and  made  its  sides  quiver — 
the  rock  itself  seemed  trembling.  The  sombre  pines 
showed  up,  a  wall  all  round,  and  in  the  open  space, 
turreted  with  fantastic  fires,  the  Indians  swayed  in  and 
out  with  weird  chanting,  their  bodies  mostly  naked, 
and  painted  in  strange  colours.  The  earth  itself  was 
still  and  sober.  Scarce  a  star  peeped  forth.  A  purple 
velvet  curtain  seemed  to  hang  all  down  the  sky,  though 
here  and  there  the  flame  bronzed  it.  The  Indian 
lodges  were  empty,  save  where  a  few  children  squatted 
at  the  openings.  The  seven  stood  still  with  wonder, 
till  Pierre  whispered  to  them  to  get  to  the  ground  and 
crawl  close  in  by  the  walls  of  the  Fort,  following  him. 
They  did  so,  Macavoy  breathing  hard — too  hard;  for 
suddenly  Pierre  clapped  a  hand  on  his  mouth. 

They  were  now  near  the  Fort,  and  Pierre  had  seen 
an  Indian  come  from  the  gate.  The  brave  was  within 
a  few  feet  of  them.  He  had  almost  passed  them,  for 
they  were  in  the  shadow,  but  Jose*  had  burst  a  puff- 
ball  with  his  hand,  and  the  dust,  flying  up,  made  him 
sneeze.  The  Indian  turned  and  saw  them.  With  a 
low  cry  and  the  spring  of  a  tiger  Pierre  was  at  his 
throat;  and  in  another  minute  they  were  struggling 
on  the  ground.  Pierre's  hand  never  let  go.  His  com- 
rades did  not  stir;  he  had  warned  them  to  lie  still. 
They  saw  the  terrible  game  played  out  within  arm's 
length  of  them.  They  heard  Pierre  say  at  last,  as  the 
struggles  of  the  Indian  ceased:  "Beast!  You  had 
Father  Halen's  life.  I  have  yours." 

There  was  one  more  wrench  of  the  Indian's  limbs, 
and  then  he  lay  still. 

They  crawled  nearer  the  gate,  still  hidden  in  the 


38  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

shadows  and  the  grass.  Presently  they  came  to  a 
clear  space.  Across  this  they  must  go,  and  enter  the 
Fort  before  they  were  discovered.  They  got  to  their 
feet,  and  ran  with  wonderful  swiftness,  Pierre  leading, 
to  the  gate.  They  had  just  reached  it  when  there  was 
a  cry  from  the  walls,  on  which  two  Indians  were  sitting. 
The  Indians  sprang  down,  seized  their  spears,  and 
lunged  at  the  seven  as  they  entered.  One  spear  caught 
Little  Babiche  in  the  arm  as  he  swung  aside,  but  with 
the  butt  of  his  musket  Noel  dropped  him.  The  other 
Indian  was  promptly  handled  by  Pierre  himself.  By 
this  time  Corvette  and  Jose*  had  shut  the  gates,  and  the 
Fort  was  theirs — an  easy  conquest.  The  Indians  were 
bound  and  gagged. 

The  adventurers  had  done  it  all  without  drawing  the 
attention  of  the  howling  crowd  without.  The  matter 
was  in  its  infancy,  however.  They  had  the  place,  but 
could  they  hold  it?  What  food  and  water  were  there 
within?  Perhaps  they  were  hardly  so  safe  besieged  as 
besiegers.  Yet  there  was  no  doubt  on  Pierre's  part. 
He  had  enjoyed  the  adventure  so  far  up  to  the  hilt. 
An  old  promise  had  been  kept,  and  an  old  wrong 
avenged. 

"What's  to  be  done  now? "  said  Macavoy.  "There'll 
be  hell's  own  racket;  and  they'll  come  on  like  a 
flood." 

"To  wait,"  said  Pierre,  "and  dam  the  flood  as  it 
comes.  But  not  a  bullet  till  I  give  the  word.  Take 
to  the  chinks.  We'll  have  them  soon." 

He  was  right :  they  came  soon.  Someone  had  found 
the  dead  body  of  Young  Eye;  then  it  was  discovered 
that  the  gate  was  shut.  A  great  shout  went  up.  The 
Indians  ran  to  their  lodges  for  spears  and  hatchets, 
though  the  weapons  of  many  were  within  the  Fort, 


THE  FILIBUSTER  39 

and  soon  they  were  about  the  place,  shouting  in  im- 
potent rage.  They  could  not  tell  how  many  invaders 
were  in  the  Fort;  they  suspected  it  was  the  Little 
Skins,  their  ancient  enemies.  But  Young  Eye,  they 
saw,  had  not  been  scalped.  This  was  brought  to  the 
old  chief,  and  he  called  to  his  men  to  fall  back.  They 
had  not  seen  one  man  of  the  invaders;  all  was  silent 
and  dark  within  the  Fort;  even  the  two  torches  which 
had  been  burning  above  the  gate  were  down.  At  that 
moment,  as  if  to  add  to  the  strangeness,  a  caribou  came 
suddenly  through  the  fires,  and,  passing  not  far  from 
the  bewildered  Indians,  plunged  into  the  trees  behind 
the  Fort. 

The  caribou  is  credited  with  great  powers.  It  is 
thought  to  understand  all  that  is  said  to  it,  and  to  be 
able  to  take  the  form  of  a  spirit.  No  Indian  will  come 
near  it  till  it  is  dead,  and  he  that  kills  it  out  of  season 
is  supposed  to  bring  down  all  manner  of  evil. 

So  at  this  sight  they  cried  out — the  women  falling 
to  the  ground  with  their  faces  in  their  arms — that  the 
caribou  had  done  this  thing.  For  a  moment  they  were 
all  afraid.  Besides,  as  a  brave  showed,  there  was  no 
mark  on  the  body  of  Young  Eye. 

Pierre  knew  quite  well  that  this  was  a  bull  caribou, 
travelling  wildly  till  he  found  another  herd.  He  would 
carry  on  the  deception.  "Wail  for  the  dead,  as  your 
women  do  in  Ireland.  That  will  finish  them,"  he  said 
to  Macavoy. 

The  giant  threw  his  voice  up  and  out,  so  that  it 
seemed  to  come  from  over  the  Fort  to  the  Indians, 
weird  and  crying.  Even  the  half-breeds  standing  by 
felt  a  light  shock  of  unnatural  excitement.  The  In- 
dians without  drew  back  slowly  from  the  Fort,  leaving 
a  clear  space  between.  Macavoy  had  uncanny  tricks 


40  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

with  his  voice,  and  presently  he  changed  the  song 
into  a  shrill,  wailing  whistle,  which  went  trembling 
about  the  place  and  then  stopped  suddenly. 

"Sure,  that's  a  poor  game,  Pierre,"  he  whispered; 
"an'  I'd  rather  be  pluggin'  their  hides  wid  bullets,  or 
givin'  the  double-an'-twist.  It's  fightin'  I  come  for, 
and  not  the  trick  av  Mother  Kilkevin." 

Pierre  arranged  a  plan  of  campaign  at  once.  Every 
man  looked  to  his  gun,  the  gates  were  slowly  opened, 
and  Macavoy  stepped  out.  Pierre  had  thrown  over 
the  Irishman's  shoulders  the  great  skin  of  a  musk-ox 
which  he  had  found  inside  the  stockade.  He  was  a 
strange,  immense  figure,  as  he  walked  into  the  open 
space,  and,  folding  his  arms,  looked  round.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  gate  behind  were  Pierre  and  the  half- 
breeds,  with  guns  cocked. 

Macavoy  had  lived  so  long  in  the  north  that  he 
knew  enough  of  all  the  languages  to  speak  to  this 
tribe.  When  he  came  out  a  murmur  of  wonder  ran 
among  the  Indians.  They  had  never  seen  anyone  so 
tall,  for  they  were  not  great  of  stature,  and  his  huge 
beard  and  wild  shock  of  hah*  were  a  wonderful  sight. 
He  remained  silent,  looking  on  them.  At  last  the  old 
chief  spoke.  "Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  a  great  chief  from  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty 
Men,  come  to  be  your  king,"  was  his  reply. 

"He  is  your  king,"  cried  Pierre  in  a  strange  voice 
from  the  shadow  of  the  gate,  and  he  thrust  out  his  gun- 
barrel,  so  that  they  could  see  it. 

The  Indians  now  saw  Pierre  and  the  half-breeds  in 
the  gateway,  and  they  had  not  so  much  awe.  They 
came  a  little  nearer,  and  the  women  stopped  crying. 
A  few  of  the  braves  half-raised  their  spears.  Seeing 
this,  Pierre  instantly  stepped  forward  to  the  giant.  He 


THE  FILIBUSTER  41 

looked  a  child  in  stature  thereby.  He  spoke  quickly 
and  well  in  the  Chinook  language. 

"This  is  a  mighty  man  from  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty 
Men.  He  has  come  to  rule  over  you,  to  give  all  other 
tribes  into  your  hands;  for  he  has  strength  like  a  thou- 
sand, and  fears  nothing  of  gods  nor  men.  I  have  the 
blood  of  red  men  in  me.  It  is  I  who  have  called  this 
man  from  his  distant  home.  I  heard  of  your  fighting 
and  foolishness:  also  that  warriors  were  to  come  from 
the  south  country  to  scatter  your  wives  and  children, 
and  to  make  you  slaves.  I  pitied  you,  and  I  have 
brought  you  a  chief  greater  than  any  other.  Throw 
your  spears  upon  the  ground,  and  all  will  be  well;  but 
raise  one  to  throw,  or  one  arrow,  or  axe,  and  there 
shall  be  death  among  you,  so  that  as  a  people  you  shall 
die.  The  spirits  are  with  us.  ...  Well? " 

The  Indians  drew  a  little  nearer,  but  they  did  not 
drop  their  spears,  for  the  old  chief  forbade  them. 

"We  are  no  dogs  nor  cowards,"  he  said,  "though 
the  spirits  be  with  you,  as  we  believe.  We  have  seen 
strange  things" — he  pointed  to  Young  Eye — "and 
heard  voices  not  of  men;  but  we  would  see  great  things 
as  well  as  strange.  There  are  seven  men  of  the  Little 
Skins  tribe  within  a  lodge  yonder.  They  were  to  die 
when  our  braves  returned  from  the  hunt,  and  for  that 
we  prepared  the  feast.  But  this  mighty  man,  he  shall 
fight  them  all  at  once,  and  if  he  kills  them  he  shall  be 
our  king.  In  the  name  of  my  tribe  I  speak.  And  this 
other,"  pointing  to  Pierre,  "he  shall  also  fight  with  a 
strong  man  of  our  tribe,  so  that  we  shall  know  if  you 
are  all  brave,  and  not  as  those  who  crawl  at  the  knees 
of  the  mighty." 

This  was  more  than  Pierre  had  bargained  for.  Seven 
men  at  Macavoy,  and  Indians  too,  fighting  for  their 


42  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

lives,  was  a  contract  of  weight.  But  Macavoy  was 
blowing  in  his  beard  cheerfully  enough. 

"Let  me  choose  me  ground,"  he  said,  "wid  me  back 
to  the  wall,  an'  I'll  take  thim  as  they  come." 

Pierre  instantly  interpreted  this  to  the  Indians,  and 
said  for  himself  that  he  would  welcome  their  strongest 
man  at  the  point  of  a  knife  when  he  chose. 

The  chief  gave  an  order,  and  the  Little  Skins 
were  brought.  The  fires  still  burned  brightly,  and  the 
breathing  of  the  pines,  as  a  slight  wind  rose  and  stirred 
them,  came  softly  over.  The  Indians  stood  off  at  the 
command  of  the  chief.  Macavoy  drew  back  to  the 
wall,  dropped  the  musk-ox  skin  to  the  ground,  and 
stripped  himself  to  the  waist.  But  in  his  waistband 
there  was  what  none  of  these  Indians  had  ever  seen — 
a  small  revolver  that  barked  ever  so  softly.  In  the 
hands  of  each  Little  Skin  there  was  put  a  knife,  and 
they  were  told  their  cheerful  exercise.  They  came  on 
cautiously,  and  then  suddenly  closed  in,  knives  flashing. 
But  Macavoy's  little  bulldog  barked,  and  one  dropped 
to  the  ground.  The  others  fell  back.  The  wounded 
man  drew  up,  made  a  lunge  at  Macavoy,  but  missed 
him.  As  if  ashamed,  the  other  six  came  on  again  at  a 
spring.  But  again  the  weapon  did  its  work  smartly, 
and  one  more  came  down.  Now  the  giant  put  it  away, 
ran  in  upon  the  five,  and  cut  right  and  left.  So  sudden 
and  massive  was  his  rush  that  they  had  no  chance. 
Three  fell  at  his  blows,  and  then  he  drew  back  swiftly 
to  the  wall.  "Drop  your  knives,"  he  said,  as  they 
cowered,  "or  I'll  kill  you  all."  They  did  so.  He 
dropped  his  own. 

"Now  come  on,  ye  scuts!"  he  cried,  and  suddenly 
he  reached  and  caught  them,  one  with  each  arm,  and 
wrestled  with  them,  till  he  bent  the  one  like  a  willow 


THE  FILIBUSTER  43 

rod,  and  dropped  him  with  a  broken  back,  while  the 
other  was  at  his  mercy.  Suddenly  loosing  him,  he 
turned  him  towards  the  woods,  and  said:  "Run,  ye 
rid  divil,  run  for  y'r  life!" 

A  dozen  spears  were  raised,  but  the  rifles  of  Pierre's 
men  came  in  between:  the  Indian  reached  cover  and 
was  gone.  Of  the  six  others,  two  had  been  killed,  the 
rest  were  severely  wounded,  and  Macavoy  had  not  a 
scratch. 

Pierre  smiled  grimly.  "You've  been  doing  all  the 
fighting,  Macavoy,"  he  said. 

"There's  no  bein'  a  king  for  nothin',"  he  replied, 
wiping  blood  from  his  beard. 

"It's  my  turn  now,  but  keep  your  rifles  ready, 
though  I  think  there's  no  need." 

Pierre  had  but  a  short  minute  with  the  champion, 
for  he  was  an  expert  with  the  knife.  He  carried  away 
four  fingers  of  the  Indian's  fighting  hand,  and  that 
ended  it;  for  the  next  instant  the  point  was  at  the  red 
man's  throat.  The  Indian  stood  to  take  it  like  a  man; 
but  Pierre  loved  that  kind  of  courage,  and  shot  the 
knife  into  its  sheath  instead. 

The  old  chief  kept  his  word,  and  after  the  spears 
were  piled,  he  shook  hands  with  Macavoy,  as  did  his 
braves  one  by  one,  and  they  were  all  moved  by  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  grasp :  their  arms  were  useless  for  some  time 
after.  They  hailed  as  their  ruler,  King  Macavoy  I.; 
for  men  are  like  dogs — they  worship  him  who  beats 
them.  The  feasting  and  dancing  went  on  till  the  hunt- 
ers came  back.  Then  there  was  a  wild  scene,  but  hi 
the  end  all  the  hunters,  satisfied,  came  to  greet  their 
new  king. 

The  king  himself  went  to  bed  in  the  Fort  that  night, 
Pierre  and  his  bodyguard — by  name  Noel,  Little  Ba- 


44  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

biche,  Corvette,  Jose,  and  Parfaite — its  only  occupants, 
singing  joyfully— 

"  Did  yees  iver  hear  tell  o*  Long  Barney, 
That  come  from  the  groves  o'  Killarney? 
He  wint  for  a  king,  oh,  he  wint  for  a  king, 
But  he  niver  kem  back  to  Killarney 
Wid  his  crown,  an'  his  soord,  an'  his  army  I" 

As  a  king  Macavoy  was  a  success,  for  the  brag  had 
gone  from  him.  Like  all  his  race  he  had  faults  as  a 
subject,  but  the  responsibility  of  ruling  set  him  right. 
He  found  in  the  Fort  an  old  sword  and  belt,  left  by 
some  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  man,  and  these  he 
furbished  up  and  wore. 

With  Pierre's  aid  he  drew  up  a  simple  constitution, 
which  he  carried  in  the  crown  of  his  cap,  and  he  dis- 
tributed beads  and  gaudy  trappings  as  marks  of  hon- 
our. Nor  did  he  forget  the  frequent  pipe  of  peace, 
made  possible  to  all  by  generous  gifts  of  tobacco.  Any- 
one can  found  a  kingdom  abaft  the  Barren  Grounds 
with  tobacco,  beads,  and  red  flannel. 

For  very  many  weeks  it  was  a  happy  kingdom. 
But  presently  Pierre  yawned,  and  was  ready  to  return. 
Three  of  the  half-breeds  were  inclined  to  go  with  him. 
Jose"  and  Little  Babiche  had  formed  alliances  which 
held  them  there — besides,  King  Macavoy  needed  them. 

On  the  eve  of  Pierre's  departure  a  notable  thing 
occurred. 

A  young  brave  had  broken  his  leg  in  hunting,  had 
been  picked  up  by  a  band  of  another  tribe,  and  carried 
south.  He  found  himself  at  last  at  Fort  O'Angel. 
There  he  had  met  Mrs.  Whelan,  and  for  presents  of 
tobacco,  and  purple  and  fine  linen,  he  had  led  her  to 
her  consort.  That  was  how  the  king  and  Pierre  met 


THE  FILIBUSTER  45 

her  in  the  yard  of  Fort  Comfort  one  evening  of  early 
autumn.  Pierre  saw  her  first,  and  was  for  turning  the 
King  about  and  getting  him  away;  but  it  was  too 
late.  Mrs.  Whelan  had  seen  him,  and  she  called  out 
at  him: 

"Oh,  Tim!  me  jool,  me  king,  have  I  found  ye,  me 
imp'ror!" 

She  ran  at  him,  to  throw  her  arms  round  him.  He 
stepped  back,  the  red  of  his  face  going  white,  and  said, 
stretching  out  his  hand,  "  Woman,  y'are  me  wife,  I 
know,  whativer  y'  be;  an'  y've  right  to  have  shelter 
and  bread  av  me;  but  me  arms,  an'  me  bed,  are  me 
own  to  kape  or  to  give;  and,  by  God,  ye  shall  have 
nayther  one  nor  the  other!  There's  a  ditch  as  wide  as 
hell  betune  us." 

The  Indians  had  gathered  quickly;  they  filled  the 
yard,  and  crowded  the  gate.  The  woman  went  wild, 
for  she  had  been  drinking.  She  ran  at  Macavoy  and 
spat  in  his  face,  and  called  down  such  a  curse  on  him 
as,  whoever  hears,  be  he  one  that's  cursed  or  any 
other,  shudders  at  till  he  dies.  Then  she  fell  in  a  fit 
at  his  feet.  Macavoy  turned  to  the  Indians,  stretched 
out  his  hands  and  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  He 
stooped  down,  picked  up  the  woman,  carried  her  into 
the  Fort,  and  laid  her  on  a  bed  of  skins. 

"What  will  you  do?"  asked  Pierre. 

"She  is  my  wife,"  he  answered  firmly. 

"She  lived  with  Whelan." 

"She  must  be  cared  for,"  was  the  reply.  Pierre 
looked  at  him  with  a  curious  quietness.  "I'll  get 
liquor  for  her,"  he  said  presently.  He  started  to  go, 
but  turned  and  felt  the  woman's  pulse.  "You  would 
keep  her?"  he  asked. 

" Bring  the  liquor."     Macavoy  reached  for  water, 


46  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

and  dipping  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt  in  it,  wetted  her 
face  gently. 

Pierre  brought  the  liquor,  but  he  knew  that  the 
woman  would  die.  He  stayed  with  Macavoy  beside 
her  all  the  night.  Towards  morning  her  eyes  opened, 
and  she  shivered  greatly. 

"It's  bither  cold,"  she  said.  "You'll  put  more 
wood  on  the  fire,  Tun,  for  the  babe  must  be  kept 
warrum." 

She  thought  she  was  at  Malahide. 

"Oh,  wurra,  wurra,  but  'tis  freezin'!"  she  said 
again.  "Why  d'ye  kape  the  door  opin  whin  the 
child's  perishin'?" 

Macavoy  sat  looking  at  her,  his  trouble  shaking 
him. 

"I'll  shut  the  door  meself,  thin,"  she  added;  "for 
'twas  I  that  lift  it  opin,  Tim."  She  started  up,  but 
gave  a  cry  like  a  wailing  wind,  and  fell  back. 

"The  door  is  shut,"  said  Pierre. 

"But  the  child — the  child!"  said  Macavoy,  tears 
running  down  his  face  and  beard. 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING 


ONCE  Macavoy  the  giant  ruled  a  tribe  of  Northern 
people,  achieving  the  dignity  by  the  hands  of  Pierre, 
who  called  him  King  Macavoy.  Then  came  a  time 
when,  tiring  of  his  kingship,  he  journeyed  south,  leav- 
ing all  behind,  even  his  queen,  Wonta,  who,  in  her  bed 
of  cypresses  and  yarrow,  came  forth  no  more  into  the 
morning.  About  Fort  Guidon  they  still  gave  him  his 
title,  and  because  of  his  guilelessness,  sincerity,  and 
generosity,  Pierre  called  him  "The  Simple  King."  His 
seven  feet  and  over  shambled  about,  suggesting  un- 
jointed  power,  unshackled  force.  No  one  hated  Mac- 
avoy, many  loved  him,  he  was  welcome  at  the  fire  and 
the  cooking-pot;  yet  it  seemed  shameful  to  have  so 
much  man  useless — such  an  engine  of  life,  which  might 
do  great  things,  wasting  fuel.  Nobody  thought  much 
of  that  at  Fort  Guidon,  except,  perhaps,  Pierre,  who 
sometimes  said,  "My  simple  king,  some  day  you  shall 
have  your  great  chance  again;  but  not  as  a  king — as  a 
giant,  a  man — voila!" 

The  day  did  not  come  immediately,  but  it  came. 

When  Ida,  the  deaf  and  dumb  girl,  married  Hilton, 
of  the  H.B.C.,  every  man  at  Fort  Guidon,  and  some 
from  posts  beyond,  sent  her  or  brought  her  presents 
of  one  kind  or  another.  Pierre's  gift  was  a  Mexican 
saddle.  He  was  branding  Ida's  name  on  it  with  the 
broken  blade  of  a  case-knife  when  Macavoy  entered 
on  him,  having  just  returned  from  a  vagabond  visit  to 
Fort  Ste.  Anne. 

47 


48  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"Is  it  digging  out  or  carvin'  in  y'are?"  he  asked, 
puffing  into  his  beard. 

Pierre  looked  up  contemptuously,  but  did  not  reply 
to  the  insinuation,  for  he  never  saw  an  insult  unless  he 
intended  to  avenge  it;  and  he  would  not  quarrel  with 
Macavoy. 

"What  are  you  going  to  give?"  he  asked. 

"Aw,  give  what  to  who,  hop-o'-me-thumb? "  Mac- 
avoy said,  stretching  himself  out  in  the  doorway,  his 
legs  in  the  sun,  head  in  the  shade. 

"You've  been  taking  a  walk  in  the  country,  then?" 
Pierre  asked,  though  he  knew. 

"To  Fort  Ste.  Anne:  a  buryin',  two  christ'nin's,  an' 
a  weddin' ;  an'  lashin's  av  grog  an'  swill — aw  that,  me 
button  o' the  North!" 

"La  la!  What  a  fool  you  are,  my  simple  king!  You've 
got  the  things  end  foremost.  Turn  your  head  to  the 
open  air,  for  I  go  to  light  a  cigarette,  and  if  you  breathe 
this  way,  there  will  be  a  grand  explode. " 

' '  Aw,  yer  thumb  in  yer  eye,  Pierre !  It's  like  a  baby's, 
me  breath  is,  milk  and  honey  it  is — aw  yis;  an'  Father 
Corraine,  that  was  doin'  the  trick  for  the  love  o'  God, 
says  he  to  me,  'Little  Tun  Macavoy,' — aw  yis,  little 
Tim  Macavoy, — says  he,  'when  are  you  goin'  to  buckle 
to,  for  the  love  o'  God?'  says  he.  Ashamed  I  was, 
Pierre,  that  Father  Corraine  should  spake  to  me  like 
that,  for  I'd  only  a  twig  twisted  at  me  hips  to  kape  me 
trousies  up,  an'  I  thought  'twas  that  he  had  in  his  eye! 
'Buckle  to,'  says  I,  'Father  Corraine?  Buckle  to,  yer 
riv'rince?' — feelin'  I  was  at  the  twigs  the  while.  'Ay, 
little  Tim  Macavoy,'  he  says,  says  he,  'you've  bin  'atin' 
the  husks  av  idleness  long  enough;  when  are  you  goin' 
to  buckle  to?  You  had  a  kingdom  and  ye  guv  it  up,' 
says  he;  'take  a  field,  get  a  plough,  and  buckle  to,'  says 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING       49 

he,  'an'  turn  back  no  more' — like  that,  says  Father 
Corraine;  and  I  thinkin'  all  the  tune  'twas  the  want  o' 
me  belt  he  was  drivin'  at. " 

Pierre  looked  at  him  a  moment  idly,  then  said: 
"Such  a  torn-fool!  And  where's  that  grand  leather 
belt  of  yours,  eh,  my  monarch?" 

A  laugh  shook  through  Macavoy's  beard.  "For  the 
weddin'  it  wint:  buckled  the  two  up  wid  it  for  better 
or  worse — an'  purty  they  looked,  they  did,  standin' 
there  in  me  cinch,  an'  one  hole  left — aw  yis,  Pierre. " 

"And  what  do  you  give  to  Ida?"  Pierre  asked,  with 
a  little  emphasis  of  the  branding-iron. 

Macavoy  got  to  his  feet.  "Ida!  Ida!"  said  he.  "Is 
that  saddle  for  Ida?  Is  it  her  and  Hilton  that's  to  ate 
aff  one  dish  togither?  That  rose  o'  the  valley,  that  bird 
wid  a  song  in  her  face  and  none  an  her  tongue.  That 
daisy  dot  av  a  thing,  steppin'  through  the  world  like 
a  sprig  o'  glory.  Aw,  Pierre,  thim  two! — an'  I've  divil 
a  scrap  to  give,  good  or  bad.  I've  nothin'  at  all  in  the 
wide  wurruld  but  the  clothes  an  me  back,  an'  thim 
hangin'  on  the  underbrush!" — giving  a  little  twist  to 
the  twigs.  "An'  many  a  meal  an'  many  a  dipper  o' 
drink  she's  guv  me,  little  smiles  dancin'  at  her  lips." 

He  sat  down  in  the  doorway  again,  with  his  face 
turned  towards  Pierre,  and  the  back  of  his  head  in  the 
sun.  He  was  a  picture  of  perfect  health,  sumptuous, 
huge,  a  bull  in  beauty,  the  heart  of  a  child  looking  out 
of  his  eyes,  but  a  sort  of  despair,  too,  in  his  bearing. 

Pierre  watched  him  with  a  furtive  humour  for  a  time, 
then  he  said  languidly:  "Never  mind  your  clothes,  give 
yourself." 

"Yer  tongue  in  yer  cheek,  me  spot  o'  vinegar.  Give 
meself!  What's  that  for?  A  purty  weddin'  gift,  says 
I?  Handy  thing  to  have  in  the  house!  Use  me  for  a 


50  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

clothes-horse,  or  shtand  me  in  the  garden  for  a  fairy 
bower — aw  yis,  wid  a  hole  in  me  face  that'd  ate  thim 
out  o'  house  and  home!" 

Pierre  drew  a  piece  of  brown  paper  towards  him,  and 
wrote  on  it  with  a  burnt  match.  Presently  he  held  it  up. 
"  Voila,  my  simple  king,  the  thing  for  you  to  do :  a  grand 
gift,  and  to  cost  you  nothing  now.  Come,  read  it  out, 
and  tell  me  what  you  think." 

Macavoy  took  the  paper,  and  in  a  large,  judicial  way, 
read  slowly: 

11  On  demand,  for  value  received,  I  promise  to  pay  to 
.  .  .  IDA  HILTON  ...  or  order,  meself,  Tim  Mac- 
avoy, standirf  seven  foot  three  on  me  bare  fut,  wid  interest 
at  nothin'  at  all." 

Macavoy  ended  with  a  loud  smack  of  the  lips. 
"M°Guire!"  he  said,  and  nothing  more. 

McGuire  was  his  strongest  expression.  In  the  most 
important  moments  of  his  career  he  had  said  it,  and 
it  sounded  deep,  strange,  and  more  powerful  than 
many  usual  oaths.  A  moment  later  he  said  again: 
"McGuire!"  Then  he  read  the  paper  once  more  out 
loud.  " What's  that,  me  Frinchman?"  he  asked.  "What 
Ballzeboob's  tricks  are  y'at  now?" 

Pierre  was  complacently  eyeing  his  handiwork  on 
the  saddle.  He  now  settled  back  with  his  shoulders  to 
the  wall,  and  said:  "See,  then,  it's  a  little  promissory 
note  for  a  wedding-gift  to  Ida.  When  she  says  some  day, 
'Tun  Macavoy,  I  want  you  to  do  this  or  that,  or  to  go 
here  or  there,  or  to  sell  you  or  trade  you,  or  use  you  for 
a  clothes-horse,  or  a  bridge  over  a  canyon,  or  to  hold 
up  a  house,  or  blow  out  a  prairie-fire,  or  be  my  second 
husband,'  you  shall  say,  'Here  I  am';  and  you  shall 
travel  from  Heaven  to  Halifax,  but  you  shall  come  at 
the  call  of  this  promissory. " 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING       51 

Pierre's  teeth  glistened  behind  a  smile  as  he  spoke, 
and  Macavoy  broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  "Black's 
the  white  o'  yer  eye,"  he  said  at  last,  "an'  a  joke's  a 
joke.  Seven  fut  three  I  am,  an'  sound  av  wind  an'  limb 
—an'  a  weddin'-gift  to  that  swate  rose  o'  the  valley! 
Aisy,  aisy,  Pierre.  A  bit  o'  foolin'  'twas  ye  put  on  the 
paper,  but  truth  I'll  make  it,  me  cock  o'  the  walk. 
That's  me  gift  to  her  an'  Hilton,  an'  no  other.  An'  a 
dab  wid  red  wax  it  shall  have,  an'  what  more  be  the 
word  o'  Freddy  Tarlton  the  lawyer?" 

"You're  a  great  man,"  said  Pierre  with  a  touch  of 
gentle  irony,  for  his  natural  malice  had  no  play  against 
the  huge  ex-king  of  his  own  making.  With  these  big 
creatures — he  had  connived  with  several  in  his  tune — 
he  had  ever  been  superior,  protective,  making  them  to 
feel  that  they  were  as  children  beside  him.  He  looked 
at  Macavoy  musingly,  and  said  to  himself:  "Well,  why 
not?  If  it  is  a  joke,  then  it  is  a  joke;  if  it  is  a  thing  to 
make  the  world  stand  still  for  a  minute  sometime,  so 
much  the  better.  He  is  all  waste  now.  By  the  holy, 
he  shall  do  it.  It  is  amusing,  and  it  may  be  great  by 
and  by." 

Presently  Pierre  said  aloud:  "Well,  my  Macavoy, 
what  will  you  do?  Send  this  good  gift?  " 

"Aw  yis,  Pierre;  I  shtand  by  that  from  the  crown 
av  me  head  to  the  sole  av  me  fut  sure.  Face  like  a 
mornin'  in  May,  and  hands  like  the  tunes  of  an  organ, 
she  has.  Spakes  wid  a  look  av  her  eye  and  a  twist  av 
her  purty  lips  an'  swaying  body,  an'  talkin'  to  you 
widout  a  word.  Aw  motion — motion — motion;  yis, 
that's  it.  An'  I've  seen  her  an  tap  av  a  hill  wid  the 
wind  blowin'  her  hair  free,  and  the  yellow  buds  on  the 
tree,  and  the  grass  green  beneath  her  feet,  the  world 
smilin'  betune  her  and  the  sun:  pictures — pictures, 


52  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

aw  yis!  Promissory  notice  on  demand  is  it  anny  toime? 
Seven  fut  three  on  me  bare  toes — but  Father  o'  Sin! 
when  she  calls  I  come,  yis." 

"On  your  oath,  Macavoy?"  asked  Pierre;  "by  the 
book  av  the  Mass?" 

Macavoy  stood  up  straight  till  his  head  scraped  the 
cobwebs  between  the  rafters,  the  wild  indignation  of  a 
child  in  his  eye.  "D'ye  think  I'm  a  thafe,  to  stale  me 
own  word?  Hut!  I'll  break  ye  in  two,  ye  wisp  o'  straw, 
if  ye  doubt  me  word  to  a  lady.  There's  me  note  av 
hand,  and  ye  shall  have  me  fist  on  it,  in  writin',  at 
Freddy  Tarlton's  office,  wid  a  blotch  av  red  an'  the 
Queen's  head  at  the  bottom.  McGuire!"  he  said  again, 
and  paused,  puffing  his  lips  through  his  beard. 

Pierre  looked  at  him  a  moment,  then  waving  his 
fingers  idly,  said,  "So,  my  straw-breaker!  Then  to- 
morrow morning  at  ten  you  will  fetch  your  wedding- 
gift.  But  come  so  soon  now  to  M'sieu'  Tarlton's  office, 
and  we  will  have  it  all  as  you  say,  with  the  red  seal  and 
the  turn  of  your  fist — yes.  Well,  well,  we  travel  far 
in  the  world,  and  sometimes  we  see  strange  things, 
and  no  two  strange  things  are  alike — no;  there  is  only 
one  Macavoy  in  the  world,  there  was  only  one  Shon 
M°Gann.  Shon  McGann  was  a  fine  fool,  but  he  did 
something  at  last,  truly  yes:  Tim  Macavoy,  perhaps,  will 
do  something  at  last  on  his  own  hook.  Hey,  I  wonder! " 

He  felt  the  muscles  of  Macavoy's  arm  musingly,  and 
then  laughed  up  in  the  giant's  face.  "Once  I  made 
you  a  king,  my  own,  and  you  threw  it  all  away;  now 
I  make  you  a  slave,  and  we  shall  see  what  you  will  do. 
Come  along,  for  M'sieu'  Tarlton." 

Macavoy  dropped  a  heavy  hand  on  Pierre's  shoulder. 

"'Tis  hard  to  be  a  king,  Pierre,  but  'tis  aisy  to  be  a 
slave  for  the  likes  o'  her.  I'd  kiss  her  dirty  shoe  sure ! " 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING       53 

As  they  passed  through  the  door,  Pierre  said,  "Dis 
done,  perhaps,  when  all  is  done,  she  will  sell  you  for  old 
bones  and  rags.  Then  I  will  buy  you,  and  I  will  burn 
your  bones  and  the  rags,  and  I  will  scatter  to  the  four 
winds  of  the  earth  the  ashes  of  a  king,  a  slave,  a  fool, 
and  an  Irishman — truly!" 

"Bedad,  ye'll  have  more  earth  in  yer  hands  then, 
Pierre,  than  ye'll  ever  earn,  and  more  heaven  than  ye'll 
ever  shtand  in." 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  in  Freddy  Tarlton's 
office  on  the  banks  of  the  Little  Big  Swan,  which 
tumbled  past,  swelled  by  the  first  rain  of  the  early 
autumn.  Freddy  Tarlton,  who  had  a  gift  of  humour, 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  treated  it  seri- 
ously; but  in  vain  did  he  protest  that  the  large  red  seal 
with  Her  Majesty's  head  on  it  was  unnecessary;  Mac- 
avoy  insisted,  and  wrote  his  name  across  it  with  a  large 
indistinctness  worthy  of  a  king.  Before  the  night  was 
over  everybody  at  Guidon  Hill,  save  Hilton  and  Ida, 
knew  what  gift  would  come  from  Macavoy  to  the 
wedded  pair. 

II 

THE  next  morning  was  almost  painfully  beautiful,  so 
delicate  in  its  clearness,  so  exalted  by  the  glory  of  the 
hills,  so  grand  in  the  limitless  stretch  of  the  green-brown 
prairie  north  and  south.  It  was  a  day  for  God's  crea- 
tures to  meet  in,  and  speed  away,  and  having  flown 
round  the  boundaries  of  that  spacious  domain,  to  return 
again  to  the  nest  of  home  on  the  large  plateau  between 
the  sea  and  the  stars.  Gathered  about  Ida's  home  was 
everybody  who  lived  within  a  radius  of  a  hundred  miles. 
In  the  large  front  room  all  the  presents  were  set: — 
rich  furs  from  the  far  north,  cunningly  carved  bowls, 


54  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

rocking-chairs  made  by  hand,  knives,  cooking  utensils,  a 
copy  of  Shakespeare  in  six  volumes  from  the  Protestant 
missionary  who  performed  the  ceremony,  a  nugget  of 
gold  from  the  Long  Light  River;  and  outside  the  door, 
a  horse,  Hilton's  own  present  to  his  wife,  on  which  was 
put  Pierre's  saddle,  with  its  silver  mounting  and  Ida's 
name  branded  deep  on  pommel  and  flap.  When  Mac- 
avoy  arrived,  a  cheer  went  up,  which  was  carried  on 
waves  of  laughter  into  the  house  to  Hilton  and  Ida,  who 
even  then  were  listening  to  the  first  words  of  the  brief 
service  which  begins,  "7  charge  you  both  if  you  do  know 
any  just  cause  or  impediment—  "  and  so  on. 

They  did  not  turn  to  see  what  it  was,  for  just  at  that 
moment  they  themselves  were  the  very  centre  of  the 
universe.  Ida  being  deaf  and  dumb,  it  was  necessary 
to  interpret  to  her  the  words  of  the  service  by  signs,  as 
the  missionary  read  it,  and  this  was  done  by  Pierre 
himself,  the  half-breed  Catholic,  the  man  who  had 
brought  Hilton  and  Ida  together,  for  he  and  Ida  had 
been  old  friends.  After  Father  Corraine  had  taught 
her  the  language  of  signs,  Pierre  had  learned  them  from 
her,  until  at  last  his  gestures  had  become  as  vital  as  her 
own.  The  delicate  precision  of  his  every  movement, 
the  suggestiveness  of  look  and  motion,  were  suited  to  a 
language  which  was  nearer  to  the  instincts  of  his  own 
nature  than  word  of  mouth.  All  men  did  not  trust 
Pierre,  but  all  women  did;  with  those  he  had  a  touch 
of  Machiavelli,  with  these  he  had  no  sign  of  Mephis- 
topheles,  and  few  were  the  occasions  in  his  life  when  he 
showed  outward  tenderness  to  either :  which  was  equally 
effective.  He  had  learnt,  or  knew  by  instinct,  that  ex- 
clusiveness  as  to  men  and  indifference  as  to  women  are 
the  greatest  influences  on  both.  As  he  stood  there, 
slowly  interpreting  to  Ida,  by  graceful  allusive  signs, 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING      55 

the  words  of  the  service,  one  could  not  think  that  behind 
his  impassive  face  there  was  any  feeling  for  the  man  or 
for  the  woman.  He  had  that  disdainful  smile  which  men 
acquire  who  are  all  their  lives  aloof  from  the  hopes  of 
the  hearthstone  and  acknowledge  no  laws  but  their  own. 

More  than  once  the  eyes  of  the  girl  filled  with  tears, 
as  the  pregnancy  of  some  phrase  in  the  service  came 
home  to  her.  Her  face  responded  to  Pierre's  gestures, 
as  do  one's  nerves  to  the  delights  of  good  music,  and 
there  was  something  so  unique,  so  impressive  in  the 
ceremony,  that  the  laughter  which  had  greeted  Macavoy 
passed  away,  and  a  dead  silence,  beginning  from  where 
the  two  stood,  crept  out  until  it  covered  all  the  prairie. 
Nothing  was  heard  except  Hilton's  voice  in  strong  tones 
saying,  "/  take  thee  to  be  my  wedded  wife,'7  etc. ;  but  when 
the  last  words  of  the  service  were  said,  and  the  new- 
made  bride  turned  to  her  husband's  embrace,  and  a 
little  sound  of  joy  broke  from  her  lips,  there  was  plenty 
of  noise  and  laughter  again,  for  Macavoy  stood  in  the 
doorway,  or  rather  outside  it,  stooping  to  look  in  upon 
the  scene.  Someone  had  lent  him  the  cinch  of  a  broncho 
and  he  had  belted  himself  with  it,  no  longer  carrying 
his  clothes  about  "on  the  underbrush."  Hilton  laughed 
and  stretched  out  his  hand.  "Come  in,  King,"  he  said, 
"come  and  wish  us  joy." 

Macavoy  parted  the  crowd  easily,  forcing  his  way, 
and  instantly  was  stooping  before  the  pair — for  he 
could  not  stand  upright  in  the  room. 

"Aw,  now,  Hilton,  is  it  you,  is  it  you,  that's  pluckin' 
the  rose  av  the  valley,  snatchin'  the  stars  out  av  the 
sky!  aw,  Hilton,  the  like  o'  that!  Travel  down  I  did 
yesterday  from  Fort  Ste.  Anne,  and  divil  a  word  I  knew 
till  Pierre  hit  me  in  the  eye  wid  it  last  night — and  no 
time  for  a  present,  for  a  wedding-gift — no,  aw  no!" 


56  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Just  here  Ida  reached  up  and  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  smiled  down  on  her,  puffing  and  blowing 
in  his  beard,  bursting  to  speak  to  her,  yet  knowing  no 
word  by  signs  to  say;  but  he  nodded  his  head  at  her, 
and  he  patted  Hilton's  shoulder,  and  he  took  their  hands 
and  joined  them  together,  hers  on  top  of  Hilton's,  and 
shook  them  in  one  of  his  own  till  she  almost  winced. 
Presently,  with  a  look  at  Hilton,  who  nodded  in  reply, 
Ida  lifted  her  cheek  to  Macavoy  to  kiss — Macavoy,  the 
idle,  ill-cared-for,  boisterous  giant.  His  face  became 
red  like  that  of  a  child  caught  in  an  awkward  act,  and 
with  an  absurd  shyness  he  stooped  and  touched  her 
cheek.  Then  he  turned  to  Hilton,  and  blurted  out, 
"Aw,  the  rose  o'  the  valley,  the  pride  o'  the  wide 
wurruld!  aw,  the  bloom  o'  the  hills!  I'd  have  kissed 
her  dirty  shoe.  MeGuire  !  " 

A  burst  of  laughter  rolled  out  on  the  clear  ah1  of  the 
prairie,  and  the  hills  seemed  to  stir  with  the  pleasure  of 
life.  Then  it  was  that  Macavoy,  following  Hilton  and 
Ida  outside,  suddenly  stopped  beside  the  horse,  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  promissory  note  that  Pierre  had 
written,  and  said,  "  Yis,  but  all  the  weddin'-gifts  aren't 
in.  'Tis  nothin'  I  had  to  give — divil  a  cent  in  the 
wurruld,  divil  a  pound  av  baccy,  or  a  pot  for  the  fire, 
or  a  bit  av  linin  for  the  table;  nothin'  but  meself  and 
me  dirty  clothes,  standin'  seven  fut  three  an  me  bare 
toes.  What  was  I  to  do?  There  was  only  meself  to 
give,  so  I  give  it  free  and  hearty,  and  here  it  is  wid  the 
Queen's  head  an  it,  done  in  Mr.  Tarlton's  office.  Ye'd 
better  had  had  a  dog,  or  a  gun,  or  a  ladder,  or  a  horse, 
or  a  saddle,  or  a  quart  o'  brown  brandy;  but  such  as 
it  is  I  give  it  ye — I  give  it  to  the  rose  oj  the  valley 
and  the  star  o'  the  wide  wurruld." 

In  a  loud  voice  he  read  the  promissory  note,  and 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING       57 

handed  it  to  Ida.  Men  laughed  till  there  were  tears  in 
their  eyes,  and  a  keg  of  whisky  was  opened;  but  some- 
how Ida  did  not  laugh.  She  and  Pierre  had  seen  a 
serious  side  to  Macavoy's  gift:  the  childlike  manliness 
in  it.  It  went  home  to  her  woman's  heart  without  a 
touch  of  ludicrousness,  without  a  sound  of  laughter. 

Ill 

AFTER  a  time  the  interest  in  this  wedding-gift  declined 
at  Fort  Guidon,  and  but  three  people  remembered  it 
with  any  singular  distinctness — Ida,  Pierre,  and  Mac- 
avoy.  Pierre  was  interested,  for  in  his  primitive  mind 
he  knew  that,  however  wild  a  promise,  life  is  so  wild  in 
its  events,  there  comes  the  hour  for  redemption  of  all 
lOU's. 

Meanwhile,  weeks,  months,  and  even  a  couple  of 
years  passed,  Macavoy  and  Pierre  coming  and  going, 
sometimes  together,  sometimes  not,  in  all  manner  of 
words  at  war,  in  all  manner  of  fact  at  peace.  And  Ida, 
out  of  the  bounty  of  her  nature,  gave  the  two  vagabonds 
a  place  at  her  fireside  whenever  they  chose  to  come. 
Perhaps,  where  speech  was  not  given,  a  gift  of  divina- 
tion entered  into  her  instead,  and  she  valued  what 
others  found  useless,  and  held  aloof  from  what  others 
found  good.  She  had  powers  which  had  ever  been  the 
admiration  of  Guidon  Hill.  Birds  and  animals  were  her 
friends — she  called  them  her  kinsmen.  A  peculiar 
sympathy  joined  them;  so  that  when,  at  last,  she 
tamed  a  white  wild  duck,  and  made  it  do  the  duties 
of  a  carrier-pigeon,  no  one  thought  it  strange. 

Up  in  the  hills,  beside  the  White  Sun  River,  lived  her 
sister  and  her  sister's  children;  and,  by  and  by,  the  duck 
carried  messages  back  and  forth,  so  that  when,  in  the 


58  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

winter,  Ida's  health  became  delicate,  she  had  comfort 
in  the  solicitude  and  cheerfulness  of  her  sister,  and  the 
gaiety  of  the  young  birds  of  her  nest,  who  sent  Ida  many 
a  sprightly  message  and  tales  of  their  good  vagrancy 
in  the  hills.  In  these  days  Pierre  and  Macavoy  were 
little  at  the  Post,  save  now  and  then  to  sit  with  Hilton 
beside  the  fire,  waiting  for  spring  and  telling  tales. 
Upon  Hilton  had  settled  that  peaceful,  abstracted  ex- 
pectancy which  shows  man  at  his  best,  as  he  waits  for 
the  time  when,  through  the  half-lights  of  his  fatherhood, 
he  shall  see  the  broad  fine  dawn  of  motherhood  spread- 
ing up  the  world — which,  all  being  said  and  done,  is  that 
place  called  Home.  Something  gentle  came  over  him 
while  he  grew  stouter  in  body  and  in  all  other  ways 
made  a  larger  figure  among  the  people  of  the  West. 

As  Pierre  said,  whose  wisdom  was  more  to  be  trusted 
than  his  general  morality,  "It  is  strange  that  most  men 
think  not  enough  of  themselves  till  a  woman  shows  them 
how.  But  it  is  the  great  wonder  that  the  woman  does 
not  despise  him  for  it.  Quel  caractere!  She  "has  so  often 
to  show  him  his  way  like  a  babe,  and  yet  she  says  to  him, 
Mon  grand  homme!  my  master!  my  lord!  Pshaw!  I 
have  often  thought  that  women  are  half  saints,  half 
fools,  and  men  half  fools,  half  rogues.  But  quelle  vie! 
— what  life!  without  a  woman  you  are  half  a  man;  with 
one  you  are  bound  to  a  single  spot  in  the  world,  you  are 
tied  by  the  leg,  your  wing  is  clipped — you  cannot  have 
all.  Quelle  vie — what  life!" 

To  this  Macavoy  said:  "Spit-spat!  But  what  the 
devil  good  does  all  yer  thinkin'  do  ye,  Pierre?  It's 
argufy  here  and  argufy  there,  an'  while  yer  at  that,  me 
an'  the  rest  av  us  is  squeezin'  the  fun  out  o'  life.  Aw, 
go  'long  wid  ye.  Y'are  only  a  bit  o'  hell  and  grammar, 
annyway.  Wid  all  yer  cuttin'  and  carvin'  things  to  see 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING       59 

the  internals  av  thim,  I'd  do  more  to  the  call  av  a 
woman's  finger  than  for  all  the  logic  and  knowalogy 
y'  ever  chewed — an'  there  y'are,  me  little  tailor  o' 
jur'sprudince!" 

"To  the  finger  call  of  Hilton's  wife,  eh?" 

Macavoy  was  not  quite  sure  what  Pierre's  enigmatical 
tone  meant.  A  wild  light  showed  in  his  eyes,  and  his 
tongue  blundered  out:  "Yis,  Hilton's  wife's  finger,  or 
a  look  av  her  eye,  or  nothin'  at  all.  Aisy,  aisy,  ye  wasp ! 
Ye'd  go  stalkin'  divils  in  hell  for  her  yerself ,  so  ye  would. 
But  the  tongue  av  ye — hut,  it's  gall  to  the  tip. " 

"Maybe,  my  king.  But  I'd  go  hunting  because  I 
wanted;  you  because  you  must.  You're  a  slave  to 
come  and  to  go,  with  a  Queen's  seal  on  the  promissory." 

Macavoy  leaned  back  and  roared.    " Aw,  that!    The 
rose  o'  the  valley — the  joy  o'  the  wurruld !  S't,  Pierre— 
his  voice  grew  softer  on  a  sudden,  as  a  fresh  thought 
came  to  him — "did  y'  ever  think  that  the  child  might  be 
dumb  like  the  mother?" 

This  was  a  day  in  the  early  spring,  when  the  snows 
were  melting  in  the  hills,  and  freshets  were  sweeping 
down  the  valleys  far  and  near.  That  night  a  warm 
heavy  rain  came  on,  and  in  the  morning  every  stream 
and  river  was  swollen  to  twice  its  size.  The  mountains 
seemed  to  have  stripped  themselves  of  snow,  and  the 
vivid  sun  began  at  once  to  colour  the  foothills  with 
green.  As  Pierre  and  Macavoy  stood  at  their  door, 
looking  out  upon  the  earth  cleansing  itself,  Macavoy 
suddenly  said:  "Aw,  look,  look, .  Pierre — her  white 
duck  off  to  the  nest  on  Champak  Hill!" 

They  both  shaded  their  eyes  with  their  hands. 
Circling  round  two  or  three  tunes  above  the  Post,  the 
duck  then  stretched  out  its  neck  to  the  west,  and  floated 
away  beyond  Guidon  Hill,  and  was  hid  from  view. 


60  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Pierre,  without  a  word,  began  cleaning  his  rifle,  while 
Macavoy  smoked,  and  sat  looking  into  the  distance, 
surveying  the  sweet  warmth  and  light.  His  face  blos- 
somed with  colour,  and  the  look  of  his  eyes  was  that  of 
an  irresponsible  child.  Once  or  twice  he  smiled  and 
puffed  in  his  beard,  but  perhaps  that  was  involuntary, 
or  was,  maybe,  a  vague  reflection  of  his  dreams,  them- 
selves most  vague,  for  he  was  only  soaking  in  sun  and 
ah*  and  life. 

Within  an  hour  they  saw  the  wild  duck  again  passing 
the  crest  of  Guidon,  and  they  watched  it  sailing  down 
to  the  Post,  Pierre  idly  fondling  the  gun,  Macavoy  half 
roused  from  his  dreams.  But  presently  they  were  alto- 
gether roused,  the  gun  was  put  away,  and  both  were  on 
their  feet;  for  after  the  pigeon  arrived  there  was  a  stir 
at  the  Post,  and  Hilton  could  be  seen  running  from  the 
store  to  his  house,  not  far  away. 

"Something's  wrong  there,"  said  Pierre. 

"D'ye  think  'twas  the  duck  brought  it?"  asked 
Macavoy. 

Without  a  word  Pierre  started  away  towards  the 
Post,  Macavoy  following.  As  they  did  so,  a  half-breed 
boy  came  from  the  house,  hurrying  towards  them. 

Inside  the  house  Hilton's  wife  lay  in  her  bed,  her 
great  hour  coming  on  before  the  tune,  because  of  ill 
news  from  beyond  the  Guidon.  There  was  with  her  an 
old  Frenchwoman,  who  herself,  in  her  tune,  had  brought 
many  children  into  the  world,  whose  heart  brooded 
tenderly,  if  uncouthly,  over  the  dumb  girl.  She  it  was 
who  had  handed  to  Hilton  the  paper  the  wild  duck  had 
brought,  after  Ida  had  read  it  and  fallen  in  a  faint  on 
the  floor. 

The  message  that  had  felled  the  young  wife  was  brief 
and  awful.  A  cloud-burst  had  fallen  on  Champak  Hill, 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING       61 

had  torn  part  of  it  away,  and  a  part  of  this  part  had 
swept  down  into  the  path  that  led  to  the  little  house, 
having  been  stopped  by  some  falling  trees  and  a  great 
boulder.  It  blocked  the  only  way  to  escape  above,  and 
beneath,  the  river  was  creeping  up  to  sweep  away  the 
little  house.  So,  there  the  mother  and  her  children 
waited  (the  father  was  in  the  farthest  north),  facing 
death  below  and  above.  The  wild  duck  had  carried 
the  tale  in  its  terrible  simplicity.  The  last  words  were, 
"  There  mayn't  be  any  help  for  me  and  my  sweet  chicks, 
but  I  am  still  hoping,  and  you  must  send  a  man  or  many. 
But  send  soon,  for  we  are  cut  off,  and  the  end  may  come 
any  hour." 

Macavoy  and  Pierre  were  soon  at  the  Post,  and  knew 
from  Hilton  all  there  was  to  know.  At  once  Pierre 
began  to  gather  men,  though  what  one  or  many  could 
do  none  could  say.  Eight  white  men  and  three  Indians 
watched  the  wild  duck  sailing  away  again  from  the 
bedroom  window  where  Ida  lay,  to  carry  a  word  of 
comfort  to  Champak  Hill.  Before  it  went,  Ida  asked 
for  Macavoy,  and  he  was  brought  to  her  bedroom  by 
Hilton.  He  saw  a  pale,  almost  unearthly,  yet  beautiful 
face,  flushing  and  paling  with  a  coming  agony,  looking 
up  at  him;  and  presently  two  trembling  hands  made 
those  mystic  signs  which  are  the  primal  language  of  the 
soul.  Hilton  interpreted  to  him  this:  "I  have  sent  for 
you.  There  is  no  man  so  big  or  strong  as  you  in  the 
north.  I  did  not  know  that  I  should  ever  ask  you  to  re- 
deem the  note.  I  want  my  gift,  and  I  will  give  you  your 
paper  with  the  Queen's  head  on  it.  Those  little  lives, 
those  pretty  little  dears,  you  will  not  see  them  die.  If 
there  is  a  way,  any  way,  you  will  save  them.  Sometimes 
one  man  can  do  what  twenty  cannot.  You  were  my 
wedding-gift:  I  claim  you  now." 


62  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

She  paused,  and  then  motioned  to  the  nurse,  who  laid 
the  piece  of  brown  paper  in  Macavoy's  hand.  He  held 
it  for  a  moment  as  delicately  as  if  it  were  a  fragile  bit 
of  glass,  something  that  his  huge  fingers  might  crush  by 
touching.  Then  he  reached  over  and  laid  it  on  the  bed 
beside  her  and  said,  looking  Hilton  in  the  eyes,  "Tell 
her,  the  slip  av  a  saint  she  is,  if  the  breakin'  av  me  bones, 
or  the  lettin'  av  me  blood's  what'll  set  all  right  at  Cham- 
pak  Hill,  let  her  mind  be  aisy — aw  yis!" 

Soon  afterwards  they  were  all  on  their  way — all  save 
Hilton,  whose  duty  was  beside  this  other  danger,  for  the 
old  nurse  said  that,  "like  as  not,"  her  life  would  hang 
upon  the  news  from  Champak  Hill;  and  if  ill  came,  his 
place  was  beside  the  speechless  traveller  on  the  Brink. 

In  a  few  hours  the  rescuers  stood  on  the  top  of  Cham- 
pak Hill,  looking  down.  There  stood  the  little  house, 
as  it  were,  between  two  dooms.  Even  Pierre's  face 
became  drawn  and  pale  as  he  saw  what  a  very  few  hours 
or  minutes  might  do.  Macavoy  had  spoken  no  word, 
had  answered  no  question  since  they  had  left  the  Post. 
There  was  in  his  eye  the  large  seriousness,  the  intentness 
which  might  be  found  in  the  face  of  a  brave  boy,  who 
had  not  learned  fear,  and  yet  saw  a  vast  ditch  of  danger 
at  which  he  must  leap.  There  was  ever  before  him  the 
face  of  the  dumb  wife;  there  was  in  his  ears  the  sound 
of  pain  that  had  followed  him  from  Hilton's  house  out 
into  the  brilliant  day. 

The  men  stood  helpless,  and  looked  at  each  other. 
They  could  not  say  to  the  river  that  it  must  rise  no 
farther,  and  they  could  not  go  to  the  house,  nor  let  a 
rope  down,  and  there  was  the  crumbled  moiety  of  the 
hill  which  blocked  the  way  to  the  house:  elsewhere  it 
was  sheer  precipice  without  trees. 

There  was  no  corner  in  these  hills  that  Macavoy  and 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING       63 

Pierre  did  not  know,  and  at  last,  when  despair  seemed 
to  settle  on  the  group,  Macavoy,  having  spoken  a  low 
word  to  Pierre,  said:  " There's  wan  way,  an'  maybe 
I  can  an'  maybe  I  can't,  but  I'm  fit  to  try.  I'll  go  up 
the  river  to  an  aisy  p'int  a  mile  above,  get  in,  and  drift 
down  to  a  p'int  below  there,  thin  climb  up  and  loose 
the  stuff." 

Every  man  present  knew  the  double  danger:  the 
swift  headlong  river,  and  the  sudden  rush  of  rocks  and 
stones,  which  must  be  loosed  on  the  side  of  the  narrow 
ravine  opposite  the  little  house.  Macavoy  had  nothing 
to  say  to  the  head-shakes  of  the  others,  and  they  did 
not  try  to  dissuade  him;  for  women  and  children  were 
in  the  question,  and  there  they  were  below  beside  the 
house,  the  children  gathered  round  the  mother,  she 
waiting — waiting. 

Macavoy,  stripped  to  the  waist,  and  carrying  only 
a  hatchet  and  a  coil  of  rope  tied  round  him,  started 
away  alone  up  the  river.  The  others  waited,  now  and 
again  calling  comfort  to  the  woman  below,  though  their 
words  could  not  be  heard.  About  half  an  hour  passed, 
and  then  someone  called  out :  " Here  he  comes!"  Pres- 
ently they  could  see  the  rough  head  and  the  bare  shoul- 
ders of  the  giant  in  the  wild  churning  stream.  There 
was  only  one  point  where  he  could  get  a  hold  on  the 
hillside — the  jutting  bole  of  a  tree  just  beneath  them, 
and  beneath  the  dyke  of  rock  and  trees. 

It  was  a  great  moment.  The  current  swayed  him 
out,  but  he  plunged  forward,  catching  at  the  bole.  His 
hand  seized  a  small  branch.  It  held  him  an  instant,  as 
he  was  swung  round,  then  it  snapt.  But  the  other  hand 
clenched  the  bole,  and  to  a  loud  cheer,  which  Pierre 
prompted,  Macavoy  drew  himself  up.  After  that  they 
could  not  see  him.  He  alone  was  studying  the  situation. 


64  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

He  found  the  key-rock  to  the  dyked  slide  of  earth.  To 
loosen  it  was  to  divert  the  slide  away,  or  partly  away, 
from  the  little  house.  But  it  could  not  be  loosened  from 
above,  if  at  all,  and  he  himself  would  be  in  the  path  of 
the  destroying  hill. 

"  Aisy,  aisy,  Tim  Macavoy,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It's 
the  woman  and  the  darlins  av  her,  an'  the  rose  o'  the 
valley  down  there  at  the  Post!" 

A  minute  afterwards,  having  chopped  down  a  hickory 
sapling,  he  began  to  pry  at  the  boulder  which  held  the 
mass.  Presently  a  tree  came  crashing  down,  and  a  small 
rush  of  earth  followed  it,  and  the  hearts  of  the  men  above 
and  the  woman  and  children  below  stood  still  for  an 
instant.  An  hour  passed  as  Macavoy  toiled  with  a 
strange  careful  skill  and  a  superhuman  concentration. 
His  body  was  all  shining  with  sweat,  and  sweat  dripped 
like  water  from  his  forehead.  His  eyes  were  on  the  key- 
rock  and  the  pile,  alert,  measuring,  intent.  At  last  he 
paused.  He  looked  round  at  the  hills — down  at  the 
river,  up  at  the  sky — humanity  was  shut  away  from  his 
sight.  He  was  alone.  A  long  hot  breath  broke  from  his 
pressed  lips,  stirring  his  big  red  beard.  Then  he  gave 
a  call,  a  long  call  that  echoed  through  the  hills  weirdly 
and  solemnly. 

It  reached  the  ears  of  those  above  like  a  greeting 
from  an  outside  world.  They  answered,  "  Right,  Mac- 
avoy!" 

Years  afterwards  these  men  told  how  then  there 
came  hi  reply  one  word,  ringing  roundly  through  the 
hills — the  note  and  symbol  of  a  crisis,  the  fantastic 
cipher  of  a  soul — 

"M'Guire!" 

There  was  a  loud  booming  sound,  the  dyke  was  loosed, 
the  ravine  split  into  the  swollen  stream  its  choking 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  SIMPLE  KING       65 

mouthful  of  earth  and  rock;  and  a  minute  afterwards 
the  path  was  clear  to  the  top  of  Champak  Hill.  To  it 
came  the  unharmed  children  and  their  mother,  who, 
from  the  warm  peak  sent  the  wild  duck  "to  the  rose  o' 
the  valley,"  which,  till  the  message  came,  was  trembling 
on  the  stem  of  life.  But  Joy,  that  marvellous  healer, 
kept  it  blooming  with  a  little  Eden  bird  nestling  near, 
whose  happy  tongue  was  taught  in  after  years  to  tell 
of  the  gift  of  the  Simple  King;  who  had  redeemed,  on 
demand,  the  promissory  note  for  ever. 


MALACHI 

"HE'LL  swing  just  the  same  to-morrow.  Exit  Mala- 
chi!" said  Freddy  Tarlton  gravely. 

The  door  suddenly  opened  on  the  group  of  gossips, 
and  a  man  stepped  inside  and  took  the  only  vacant 
seat  near  the  fire.  He  glanced  at  none,  but  stretched 
out  his  hands  to  the  heat,  looking  at  the  coals  with 
drooping  introspective  eyes. 

"Exit  Malachi,"  he  said  presently  in  a  soft  ironical 
voice,  but  did  not  look  up. 

"By  the  holy  poker,  Pierre,  where  did  you  spring 
from?"  asked  Tarlton  genially. 

"The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and — "  Pierre 
responded,  with  a  little  turn  of  his  fingers. 

"And  the  wind  doesn't  tell  where  it's  been,  but  that's 
no  reason  Pierre  shouldn't,"  urged  the  other. 

Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  made  no  answer. 

"He  was  a  tough,"  said  a  voice  from  the  crowd. 
"To-morrow  he'll  get  the  breakfast  he's  paid  for." 

Pierre  turned  and  looked  at  the  speaker  with  a 
cold  inquisitive  stare.  "Mon  Dieu!"  he  said  presently, 
"here's  this  Gohawk  playing  preacher.  What  do  you 
know  of  Malachi,  Gohawk?  What  do  any  of  you 
know  about  Malachi?  A  little  of  this,  a  little  of  that, 
a  drink  here,  a  game  of  euchre  there,  a  ride  after  cattle, 
a  hunt  behind  Guidon  Hill! — But  what  is  that?  You 
have  heard  the  cry  of  the  eagle,  you  have  seen  him 
carry  off  a  lamb,  you  have  had  a  pot-shot  at  him,  but 
what  do  you  know  of  the  eagle's  nest?  Mais  non. 

06 


MALACHI  67 

The  lamb  is  one  thing,  the  nest  is  another.  You  don't 
know  the  eagle  till  you've  been  there.  And  you,  Go- 
hawk,  would  not  understand,  if  you  saw  the  nest. 
Such  cancan!" 

"Shut  your  mouth!"  broke  out  Gohawk.  "D'ye 
think  I'm  going  to  stand  your — " 

Freddy  Tarlton  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "Keep 
quiet,  Gohawk.  What  good  will  it  do?"  Then  he 
said,  "Tell  us  about  the  nest,  Pierre;  they're  hanging 
him  for  the  lamb  in  the  morning." 

"Who  spoke  for  him  at  the  trial?"  Pierre  asked. 

"I  did,"  said  Tarlton.  "I  spoke  as  well  as  I  could, 
but  the  game  was  dead  against  him  from  the  start. 
The  sheriff  was  popular,  and  young;  young — that  was 
the  thing;  handsome  too,  and  the  women,  of  course! 
It  was  sure  from  the  start;  besides,  Malachi  would  say 
nothing — didn't  seem  to  care." 

"No,  not  to  care,"  mused  Pierre.  "What  did  you 
say  for  him  to  the  jury? — I  mean  the  devil  of  a  thing 
to  make  them  sit  up  and  think,  'Poor  Malachi!' — like 
that." 

"Best  speech  y'ever  heard,"  Gohawk  interjected; 
"just  emptied  the  words  out,  split  'em  like  peas,  by 
gol!  till  he  got  to  one  place  right  before  the  end.  Then 
he  pulled  up  sudden,  and  it  got  so  quiet  you  could 
'a  heard  a  pin  drop.  'Gen'lemen  of  the  jury,'  says 
Freddy  Tarlton  here — gen'kmen,  by  gol!  all.  that  lot 
— Lagan  and  the  rest!  'Gen'lemen  of  the  jury,'  he 
says,  'be  you  danged  well  sure  that  you're  at  one  with 
God  A'mighty  in  this;  that  you've  got  at  the  core  of 
justice  here;  that  you've  got  evidence  to  satisfy  Him 
who  you've  all  got  to  satisfy  some  day,  or  git  out. 
Not  evidence  as  to  shootin',  but  evidence  as  to  what 
that  shootin'  meant,  an'  whether  it  was  meant  to  kill, 


68  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

an'  what  for.  The  case  is  like  this,  gen'lemen  of  the 
jury/  says  Freddy  Tarlton  here.  'Two  men  are  in  a 
street  alone.  There's  a  shot,  out  comes  everybody, 
and  sees  Fargo  the  sheriff  laid  along  the  ground,  his 
mouth  in  the  dust,  and  a  full-up  gun  in  his  fingers. 
Not  forty  feet  away  stands  Malachi  with  a  gun  smokin' 
in  his  fist.  It  seems  to  be  the  opinion  that  it  was 
cussedness — just  cussedness — that  made  Malachi  turn 
the  sheriffs  boots  to  the  sun.  For  Malachi  was  quar- 
relsome. I'll  give  you  a  quarter  on  that.  And  the 
sheriff  was  mettlesome,  used  to  have  high  spirits,  like 
as  if  he's  lift  himself  over  the  fence  with  his  boot- 
straps. So  when  Malachi  come  and  saw  the  sheriff 
steppin'  round  in  his  paten'  leathers,  it  give  him  the 
needle,  and  he  got  a  bead  on  him — and  away  went 
Sheriff  Fargo — right  away!  That  seems  to  be  the  sense 
of  the  public.'  And  he  stops  again,  soft  and  quick, 
and  looks  the  twelve  in  the  eyes  at  once.  'But,'  says 
Freddy  Tarlton  here,  'are  you  goin'  to  hang  a  man  on 
the  little  you  know?  Or  are  you  goin'  to  credit  him 
with  somethin'  of  what  you  don't  know?  You  haint 
got  the  inside  of  this  thing,  and  Malachi  doesn't  let 
you  know  it,  and  God  keeps  quiet.  But  be  danged 
well  sure  that  you've  got  the  bulge  on  iniquity  here; 
for  gen'lemen  with  pistols  out  in  the  street  is  one  thing, 
and  sittin'  weavin'  a  rope  in  a  court-room  for  a  man's 
neck  is  another  thing,'  says  Freddy  Tarlton  here. 
'My  client  has  refused  to  say  one  word  this  or  that 
way,  but  don't  be  sure  that  Some  One  that  knows  the 
inside  of  things  won't  speak  for  him  in  the  end.'  Then 
he  turns  and  looks  at  Malachi,  and  Malachi  was  standin' 
still  and  steady  like  a  tree,  but  his  face  was  white,  and 
sweat  poured  on  his  forehead.  'If  God  has  no  voice 
to  be  heard  for  my  client  in  this  court-room  to-day,  is 


MALACHI  69 

there  no  one  on  earth — no  man  or  woman — who  can 
speak  for  one  who  won't  speak  for  himself?'  says 
Freddy  Tarlton  here.  Then,  by  gol!  for  the  first  time 
Malachi  opened.  'There's  no  one,'  he  says.  'The 
speakin'  is  all  for  the  sheriff.  But  I  spoke  once,  and 
the  sheriff  didn't  answer.'  Not  a  bit  of  beg-yer-pardon 
in  it.  It  struck  cold.  '  I  leave  his  case  in  the  hands  of 
twelve  true  men,'  says  Freddy  Tarlton  here,  and  he 
sits  down." 

"So  they  said  he  must  walk  the  ah*?"  suggested 
Pierre. 

"Without  leavin'  then*  seats,"  someone  added  in- 
stantly. 

"So.    But  that  speech  of  'Freddy  Tarlton  here'?" 

"It  was  worth  twelve  drinks  to  me,  no  more,  and 
nothing  at  all  to  Malachi,"  said  Tarlton.  "When  I 
said  I'd  come  to  him  to-night  to  cheer  him  up,  he  said 
he'd  rather  sleep.  The  missionary,  too,  he  can  make 
nothing  of  him.  'I  don't  need  anyone  here,'  he  says. 
'I  eat  this  off  my  own  plate.'  And  that's  the  end  of 
Malachi." 

"Because  there  was  no  one  to  speak  for  him — eh? 
Well,  well." 

"If  he'd  said  anything  that'd  justify  the  thing — 
make  it  a  manslaughter  business  or  a  quarrel — then! 
But  no,  not  a  word,  up  or  down,  high  or  low.  Exit 
Malachi!"  rejoined  Freddy  Tarlton  sorrowfully.  "I 
wish  he'd  given  me  half  a  chance." 

"I  wish  I'd  been  there,"  said  Pierre,  taking  a  match 
from  Gohawk,  and  lighting  his  cigarette. 

"To  hear  his  speech?"  asked  Gohawk,  nodding 
towards  Tarlton. 

"To  tell  the  truth  about  it  all.  T'sh,  you  bats,  you 
sheep,  what  have  you  in  your  skulls?  When  a  man 


70  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

will  not  speak,  will  not  lie  to  gain  a  case  for  his  lawyer 
— or  save  himself,  there  is  something!  Now,  listen  to 
me,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  Malachi.  Then 
you  shall  judge. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  face  as  that  girl  had  down  there 
at  Lachine  in  Quebec.  I  knew  her  when  she  was  a 
child,  and  I  knew  Malachi  when  he  was  on  the  river 
with  the  rafts,  the  foreman  of  a  gang.  He  had  a  look 
all  open  then  as  the  sun — yes.  Happy?  Yes,  as 
happy  as  a  man  ought  to  be.  Well,  the  mother  of  the 
child  died,  and  Malachi  alone  was  left  to  take  care  of 
the  little  Norice.  He  left  the  river  and  went  to  work 
in  the  mills,  so  that  he  might  be  with  the  child;  and 
when  he  got  to  be  foreman  there  he  used  to  bring  her 
to  the  mill.  He  had  a  basket  swung  for  her  just  in- 
side the  mill  not  far  from  him,  right  where  she  was  in 
the  shade;  but  if  she  stretched  out  her  hand  it  would 
be  in  the  sun.  I've  seen  a  hundred  men  turn  to  look 
at  her  where  she  swung,  singing  to  herself,  and  then 
chuckle  to  themselves  afterwards  as  they  worked. 

"When  Trevoor,  the  owner,  come  one  day,  and  saw 
her,  he  swore,  and  was  going  to  sack  Malachi,  but  the 
child — that  little  Norice — leaned  over  the  basket,  and 
offered  him  an  apple.  He  looked  for  a  minute,  then 
he  reached  up,  took  the  apple,  turned  round,  and  went 
out  of  the  mill  without  a  word — so.  Next  month 
when  he  come  he  walked  straight  to  her,  and  handed 
up  to  her  a  box  of  toys  and  a  silver  whistle.  'That's 
to  call  me  when  you  want  me,'  he  said,  as  he  put  the 
whistle  to  her  lips,  and  then  he  put  the  gold  string  of 
it  round  her  neck.  She  was  a  wise  little  thing,  that 
Norice,  and  noticed  things.  I  don't  believe  that  Tre- 
voor or  Malachi  ever  knew  how  sweet  was  the  smell 
of  the  fresh  sawdust  till  she  held  it  to  their  noses;  and 


MALACHI  71 

it  was  she  that  had  the  saws — all  sizes — start  one  after 
the  other,  making  so  strange  a  tune.  She  made  up  a 
little  song  about  fairies  and  others  to  sing  to  that  tune. 
And  no  one  ever  thought  much  about  Indian  Island, 
off  beyond  the  sweating,  baking  piles  of  lumber,  and 
the  blistering  logs  and  timbers  in  the  bay,  till  she  told 
stories  about  it.  Sure  enough,  when  you  saw  the  shut 
doors  and  open  windows  of  those  empty  houses,  all 
white  without  in  the  sun  and  dark  within,  and  not  a 
human  to  be  seen,  you  could  believe  almost  anything. 
You  can  think  how  proud  Malachi  was.  She  used  to 
get  plenty  of  presents  from  the  men  who  had  no  wives 
or  children  to  care  for — little  silver  and  gold  things  as 
well  as  others.  She  was  fond  of  them,  but  no,  not 
vain.  She  loved  the  gold  and  silver  for  their  own 
sake." 

Pierre  paused.  "I  knew  a  youngster  once,"  said 
Gohawk,  "that—" 

Pierre  waved  his  hand.  "I  am  not  through,  M'sieu' 
Gohawk  the  talker.  Years  went  on.  Now  she  took 
care  of  the  house  of  Malachi.  She  wore  the  whistle 
that  Trevoor  gave  her.  He  kept  saying  to  her  still, 
'If  ever  you  need  me,  little  Norice,  blow  it,  and  I  will 
come.'  He  was  droll,  that  M'sieu'  Trevoor,  at  tunes. 
Well,  she  did  not  blow,  but  still  he  used  to  come  every 
year,  and  always  brought  her  something.  One  year 
he  brought  his  nephew,  a  young  fellow  of  about  twenty- 
three.  She  did  not  whistle  for  him  either,  but  he  kept 
on  coming.  That  was  the  beginning  of  'Exit  Malachi.' 
The  man  was  clever  and  bad,  the  girl  believing  and 
good.  He  was  young,  but  he  knew  how  to  win  a 
woman's  heart.  When  that  is  done,  there  is  nothing 
more  to  do — she  is  yours  for  good  or  evil;  and  if  a  man, 
through  a  woman's  love,  makes  her  to  sin,  even  his 


72  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

mother  cannot  be  proud  of  him — no.  But  the  man 
married  Norice,  and  took  her  away  to  Madison,  down 
in  Wisconsin.  Malachi  was  left  alone — Malachi  and 
Trevoor,  for  Trevoor  felt  towards  her  as  a  father. 

"Alors,  sorrow  come  to  the  girl,  for  her  husband 
began  to  play  cards  and  to  drink,  and  he  lost  much 
money.  There  was  the  trouble — the  two  together. 
They  lived  in  a  hotel.  One  day  a  lady  missed  a  dia- 
mond necklace  from  her  room.  Norice  had  been  with 
her  the  evening  before.  Norice  come  into  her  own 
room  the  next  afternoon,  and  found  detectives  search- 
ing. In  her  own  jewel-case,  which  was  tucked  away 
in  the  pocket  of  an  old  dress,  was  found  the  necklace. 
She  was  arrested.  She  said  nothing — for  she  waited 
for  her  husband,  who  was  out  of  town  that  day.  He 
only  come  hi  time  to  see  her  in  court  next  morning. 
She  did  not  deny  anything;  she  was  quiet,  like  Mala- 
chi. The  man  played  his  part  well.  He  had  hid  the 
necklace  where  he  thought  it  would  be  safe,  but  when 
it  was  found,  he  let  the  wife  take  the  blame — a  little 
innocent  thing.  People  were  sorry  for  them  both. 
She  was  sent  to  jail.  Her  father  was  away  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  he  did  not  hear;  Trevoor  was 
in  Europe.  The  husband  got  a  divorce,  and  was  gone. 
Norice  was  in  jail  for  over  a  year,  and  then  she  was  set 
free,  for  her  health  went  bad,  and  her  mind  was  going, 
they  thought.  She  did  not  know  till  she  come  out  that 
she  was  divorced.  Then  she  nearly  died.  But  then 
Trevoor  come." 

Freddy  Tarlton's  hands  were  cold  with  excitement, 
and  his  fingers  trembled  so  he  could  hardly  light  a 
cigar. 

"Go  on,  go  on,  Pierre,"  he  said  huskily. 

"Trevoor  said  to  her — he  told  me  this  himself — 


MALACHI  73 

'Why  did  you  not  whistle  for  me,  Norice?  A  word 
would  have  brought  me  from  Europe.'  'No  one 
could  help  me,  no  one  at  all/  she  answered.  Then 
Trevoor  said,  'I  know  who  did  it,  for  he  has  robbed 
me  too.'  She  sank  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  'I  could 
have  borne  it  and  anything  for  him,  if  he  hadn't  di- 
vorced me,'  she  said.  Then  they  cleared  her  name 
before  the  world.  But  where  was  the  man?  No  one 
knew.  At  last  Malachi,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
heard  of  her  trouble,  for  Norice  wrote  to  him,  but  told 
him  not  to  do  the  man  any  harm,  if  he  ever  found  him 
— ah,  a  woman,  a  woman!  .  .  .  But  Malachi  met  the 
man  one  day  at  Guidon  Hill,  and  shot  him  in  the 
street." 

"Fargo  the  sheriff!"  roared  half-a-dozen  voices. 

"Yes;  he  had  changed  his  name,  had  come  up  here, 
and  because  he  was  clever  and  spent  money,  and  had 
a  pull  on  someone, — got  it  at  cards  perhaps, — he  was 
made  sheriff." 

"In  God's  name,  why  didn't  Malachi  speak?"  said 
Tarlton;  "why  didn't  he  tell  me  this?" 

"Because  he  and  I  had  our  own  plans.  The  one  evi- 
dence he  wanted  was  Norice.  If  she  would  come  to 
him  in  his  danger,  and  in  spite  of  his  killing  the  man, 
good.  If  not,  then  he  would  die.  Well,  I  went  to 
find  her  and  fetch  her.  I  found  her.  There  was  no 
way  to  send  word,  so  we  had  to  come  on  as  fast  as  we 
could.  We  have  come  just  in  time." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Pierre,  that  she's  here?"  said 
Gohawk. 

Pierre  waved  his  hand  emphatically.  "And  so  we 
came  on  with  a  pardon." 

Every  man  was  on  his  feet,  every  man's  tongue  was 
loosed,  and  each  ordered  liquor  for  Pierre,  and  asked 


74  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

him  where  the  girl  was.  Freddy  Tarlton  wrung  his 
hand,  and  called  a  boy  to  go  to  his  rooms  and  bring 
throe  bottles  of  wine,  which  he  had  kept  for  two  years, 
to  drink  when  he  had  won  his  first  big  case. 

Gohawk  was  importunate.  "  Where  is  the  girl, 
Pierre?"  he  urged. 

"Such  a  fool  as  you  are,  Gohawk!  She  is  with  her 
father." 

A  half-hour  later,  hi  a  large  sitting-room,  Freddy 
Tarlton  was  making  eloquent  toasts  over  the  wine. 
As  they  all  stood  drinking  to  Pierre,  the  door  opened 
from  the  hall-way,  and  Malachi  stood  before  them. 
At  his  shoulder  was  a  face,  wistful,  worn,  yet  with  a 
kind  of  happiness  too;  and  the  eyes  had  depths  which 
any  man  might  be  glad  to  drown  his  heart  in. 

Malachi  stood  still,  not  speaking,  and  an  awe  or 
awkwardness  fell  on  the  group  at  the  table. 

But  Norice  stepped  forward  a  little,  and  said:  "May 
we  come  in?" 

In  an  instant  Freddy  Tarlton  was  by  her  side,  and 
had  her  by  the  hand,  her  and  her  father,  drawing  them 
over. 

His  ardent,  admiring  look  gave  Norice  thought  for 
many  a  day. 

And  that  night  Pierre  made  an  accurate  prophecy. 


THE  LAKE   OF  THE   GREAT  SLAVE 

WHEN  Tybalt  the  tale-gatherer  asked  why  it  was  so 
called,  Pierre  said:  "Because  of  the  Great  Slave;" 
and  then  paused. 

Tybalt  did  not  hurry  Pierre,  knowing  his  whims.  If 
he  wished  to  tell,  he  would  in  his  own  time;  if  not, 
nothing  could  draw  it  from  him.  It  was  nearly  an 
hour  before  Pierre  eased  off  from  the  puzzle  he  was 
solving  with  bits  of  paper  and  obliged  Tybalt.  He 
began  as  if  they  had  been  speaking  the  moment  before: 

"They  have  said  it  is  legend,  but  I  know  better.  I 
have  seen  the  records  of  the  Company,  and  it  is  all 
there.  I  was  at  Fort  O'Glory  once,  and  in  a  box  two 
hundred  years  old  the  factor  and  I  found  it.  There 
were  other  papers,  and  some  of  them  had  large  red 
seals,  and  a  name  scrawled  along  the  end  of  the  page." 

Pierre  shook  his  head,  as  if  in  contented  musing. 
He  was  a  born  story-teller.  Tybalt  was  aching  with 
interest,  for  he  scented  a  thing  of  note. 

"How  did  any  of  those  papers,  signed  with  a  scrawl, 
begin?"  he  asked. 

11 'To  our  dearly-beloved,'  or  something  like  that," 
answered  Pierre.  "There  were  letters  also.  Two  of 
them  were  full  of  harsh  words,  and  these  were  signed 
with  the  scrawl." 

"What  was  that  scrawl?"  asked  Tybalt. 

Pierre  stooped  to  the  sand,  and  wrote  two  words 
with  his  finger.  "Like  that,"  he  answered. 

Tybalt  looked  intently  for  an  instant,  and  then  drew 

75 


76  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

a  long  breath.  "Charles  Rex,"  he  said,  hardly  above 
his  breath. 

Pierre  gave  him  a  suggestive  sidelong  glance.  "That 
name  was  droll,  eh?" 

Tybalt's  blood  was  tingling  with  the  joy  of  discov- 
ery. " It  is  a  great  name,"  he  said  shortly. 

"The  Slave  was  great — the  Indians  said  so  at  the 
last." 

"But  that  was  not  the  name  of  the  Slave?" 

"Mais  non.  Who  said  so!  Charles  Rex — like  that! 
was  the  man  who  wrote  the  letters." 

"To  the  Great  Slave?" 

Pierre  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.    "Very  sure." 

"Where  are  those  letters  now?" 

"With  the  Governor  of  the  Company." 

Tybalt  cut  the  tobacco  for  his  pipe  savagely. 

"You'd  have  liked  one  of  those  papers?"  asked 
Pierre  provokingly. 

"I'd  give  five  hundred  dollars  for  one,"  broke  out 
Tybalt. 

Pierre  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "T'sh,  what's  the  good 
of  five  hundred  dollars  up  here?  What  would  you  do 
with  a  letter  like  that?" 

Tybalt  laughed  with  a  touch  of  irony,  for  Pierre  was 
clearly  "rubbing  it  in." 

"Perhaps  for  a  book?"  gently  asked  Pierre. 

"Yes,  if  you  like." 

"It  is  a  pity.    But  there  is  a  way." 

"How?" 

"Put  me  in  the  book.    Then—" 

"How  does  that  touch  the  case?" 

Pierre  shrugged  a  shoulder  gently,  for  he  thought 
Tybalt  was  unusually  obtuse.  Tybalt  thought  so 
himself  before  the  episode  ended. 


THE  LAKE  OF  THE  GREAT  SLAVE      77 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  with  clouded  brow,  but  interested 
eye.  Then,  as  if  with  sudden  thought:  "To  whom 
were  the  letters  addressed,  Pierre?" 

"Wait!"  was  the  reply.  "One  letter  said:  'Good 
cousin,  We  are  evermore  glad  to  have  thee  and  thy 
most  excelling  mistress  near  us.  So,  fail  us  not  at  our 
cheerful  doings,  yonder  at  Highgate.'  Another — a  year 
after — said:  'Cousin,  for  the  sweetening  of  our  mind, 
get  thee  gone  into  some  distant  corner  of  our  pasturage 
—the  farthest  doth  please  us  most.  We  would  not 
have  thee  on  foreign  ground,  for  we  bear  no  ill-will  to 
our  brother  princes,  and  yet  we  would  not  have  thee 
near  our  garden  of  good  loyal  souls,  for  thou  hast  a 
rebel  heart  and  a  tongue  of  divers  tunes.  Thou  lovest 
not  the  good  old  song  of  duty  to  thy  prince.  Obeying 
us,  thy  lady  shall  keep  thine  estates  untouched;  failing 
obedience,  thou  wilt  make  more  than  thy  prince  un- 
happy. Fare  thee  well.'  That  was  the  way  of  two 
letters,"  said  Pierre. 

"How  do  you  remember  so?" 

Pierre  shrugged  a  shoulder  again.  "It  is  easy  with 
things  like  that." 

"But  word  for  word?" 

"I  learned  it  word  for  word." 

"Now  for  the  story  of  the  Lake — if  you  won't  tell 
me  the  name  of  the  man." 

"The  name  afterwards — perhaps.  Well,  he  came  to 
that,  farthest  corner  of  the  pasturage,  to  the  Hudson's 
Bay  country,  two  hundred  years  ago.  What  do  you 
think?  Was  he  so  sick  of  all,  that  he  would  go  so 
far  he  could  never  get  back?  Maybe  those  'cheerful 
doings'  at  Highgate,  eh?  And  the  lady — who  can  tell?  " 

Tybalt  seized  Pierre's  arm.  "You  know  more. 
Damnation,  can't  you  see  I'm  on  needles  to  hear? 


78  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Was  there  anything  in  the  letters  about  the  lady? 
Anything  more  than  you've  told?" 

Pierre  liked  no  man's  hand  on  him.  He  glanced 
down  at  the  eager  fingers,  and  said  coldly: 

"You  are  a  great  man;  you  can  tell  a  story  in  many 
ways,  but  I  in  one  way  alone,  and  that  is  my  way — 
mais  oui!" 

"Very  well,  take  your  own  tune." 

"Bien.  I  got  the  story  from  two  heads.  If  you 
hear  a  thing  like  that  from  Indians,  you  call  it  'legend'; 
if  from  the  Company's  papers,  you  call  it  'history.' 
Well,  in  this  there  is  not  much  difference.  The  papers 
tell  precise  the  facts;  the  legend  gives  the  feeling,  is 
more  true.  How  can  you  judge  the  facts  if  you  don't 
know  the  feeling?  No!  what  is  bad  turns  good  some- 
times, when  you  know  the  how,  the  feeling,  the  place. 
Well,  this  story  of  the  Great  Slave — eh?  .  .  .  There 
is  a  race  of  Indians  hi  the  far  north  who  have  hair 
so  brown  like  yours,  m'sieu',  and  eyes  no  darker. 
It  is  said  they  are  of  those  that  lived  at  the  Pole,  be- 
fore the  sea  swamped  the  Isthmus,  and  swallowed  up 
so  many  islands.  So.  In  those  days  the  fair  race 
came  to  the  south  for  the  first  time,  that  is,  far  below 
the  Circle.  They  had  their  women  with  them.  I  have 
seen  those  of  to-day:  fine  and  tall,  with  breasts  like 
apples,  and  a  cheek  to  tempt  a  man  like  you,  m'sieu'; 
no  grease  in  the  hair — no,  M'sieu'  Tybalt." 

Tybalt  sat  moveless  under  the  obvious  irony,  but 
his  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  Pierre,  his  mind  ever 
travelling  far  ahead  of  the  tale. 

"Alors:  the  'good  cousin'  of  Charles  Rex,  he  made 
a  journey  with  two  men  to  the  Far-off  Metal  River, 
and  one  day  this  tribe  from  the  north  come  on  his 
camp.  It  was  summer,  and  they  were  camping  in  the 


THE   LAKE   OF  THE   GREAT   SLAVE      79 

Valley  of  the  Young  Moon,  more  sweet,  they  say,  than 
any  in  the  north.  The  Indians  cornered  them.  There 
was  a  fight,  and  one  of  the  Company's  men  was  killed, 
and  five  of  the  other.  But  when  the  king  of  the  people 
of  the  Pole  saw  that  the  great  man  was  fair  of  face,  he 
called  for  the  fight  to  stop. 

"  There  was  a  big  talk  all  by  signs,  and  the  king  said 
for  the  great  man  to  come  and  be  one  with  them,  for 
they  liked  his  fair  face — their  forefathers  were  fair 
like  hun.  He  should  have  the  noblest  of  their  women 
for  his  wife,  and  be  a  prince  among  them.  He  would 
not  go:  so  they  drew  away  again  and  fought.  A 
stone-axe  brought  the  great  man  to  the  ground.  He 
was  stunned,  not  killed.  Then  the  other  man  gave 
up,  and  said  he  would  be  one  of  them  if  they  would 
take  hun.  They  would  have  killed  him  but  for  one 
of  their  women.  She  said  that  he  should  live  to  tell 
them  tales  of  the  south  country  and  the  strange  people, 
when  they  came  again  to  their  camp-fires.  So  they 
let  him  live,  and  he  was  one  of  them.  But  the  chief 
man,  because  he  was  stubborn  and  scorned  them,  and 
had  killed  the  son  of  their  king  in  the  fight,  they  made 
a  slave,  and  carried  him  north  a  captive,  till  they  came 
to  this  lake — the  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave. 

"In  all  ways  they  tried  hun,  but  he  would  not  yield, 
neither  to  wear  their  dress  nor  to  worship  their  gods. 
He  was  robbed  of  his  clothes,  of  his  gold-handled 
dagger,  his  belt  of  silk  and  silver,  his  carbine  with  rich 
chasing,  and  all,  and  he  was  among  them  almost  naked, 
—it  was  summer,  as  I  said, — yet  defying  them.  He  was 
taller  by  a  head  than  any  of  them,  and  his  white  skin 
rippled  in  the  sun  like  soft  steel." 

Tybalt  was  inclined  to  ask  Pierre  how  he  knew  all 
this,  but  he  held  his  peace.  Pierre,  as  if  divining  his 
thoughts,  continued: 


80  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"You  ask  how  I  know  these  things.  Very  good: 
there  are  the  legends,  and  there  were  the  papers  of 
the  Company.  The  Indians  tried  every  way,  but  it 
was  no  use;  he  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  them. 
At  last  they  came  to  this  lake.  Now  something  great 
occurred.  The  woman  who  had  been  the  wife  of  the 
king's  dead  son,  her  heart  went  out  in  love  of  the 
Great  Slave;  but  he  never  looked  at  her.  One  day 
there  were  great  sports,  for  it  was  the  feast  of  the  Red 
Star.  The  young  men  did  feats  of  strength,  here  on 
this  ground  where  we  sit.  The  king's  wife  called  out 
for  the  Great  Slave  to  measure  strength  with  them 
all.  He  would  not  stir.  The  king  commanded  him; 
still  he  would  not,  but  stood  among  them  silent  and 
looking  far  away  over  their  heads.  At  last,  two  young 
men  of  good  height  and  bone  threw  arrows  at  his  bare 
breast.  The  blood  came  in  spots.  Then  he  gave  a 
cry  through  his  beard,  and  was  on  them  like  a  lion. 
He  caught  them,  one  hi  each  arm,  swung  them  from 
the  ground,  and  brought  their  heads  together  with  a 
crash,  breaking  their  skulls,  and  dropped  them  at  his 
feet.  Catching  up  a  long  spear,  he  waited  for  the 
rest.  But  they  did  not  come,  for,  with  a  loud  voice, 
the  king  told  them  to  fall  back,  and  went  and  felt  the 
bodies  of  the  men.  One  of  them  was  dead;  the  other 
was  his  second  son — he  would  live. 

"'It  is  a  great  deed,'  said  the  king,  'for  these  were 
no  children,  but  strong  men.' 

"Then  again  he  offered  the  Great  Slave  women  to 
marry,  and  fifty  tents  of  deerskin  for  the  making  of  a 
village.  But  the  Great  Slave  said  no,  and  asked  to  be 
sent  back  to  Fort  O'Glory. 

"The  king  refused.  But  that  night,  as  he  slept  in 
his  tent,  the  girl- widow  came  to  him,  waked  him,  and 
told  him  to  follow  her.  He  came  forth,  and  she  led 


THE  LAKE   OF  THE  GREAT  SLAVE      81 

him  softly  through  the  silent  camp  to  that  wood  which 
we  see  over  there.  He  told  her  she  need  not  go  on. 
Without  a  word,  she  reached  over  and  kissed  him  on 
the  breast.  Then  he  understood.  He  told  her  that 
she  could  not  come  with  him,  for  there  was  that  lady 
in  England — his  wife,  eh?  But  never  mind,  that  will 
come.  He  was  too  great  to  save  his  life,  or  be  free  at 
the  price.  Some  are  born  that  way.  They  have  their 
own  commandments,  and  they  keep  them. 

"He  told  her  that  she  must  go  back.  She  gave  a 
little  cry,  and  sank  down  at  his  feet,  saying  that  her 
life  would  be  in  danger  if  she  went  back. 

"Then  he  told  her  to  come,  for  it  was  in  his  mind  to 
bring  her  to  Fort  0' Glory,  where  she  could  marry  an 
Indian  there.  But  now  she  would  not  go  with  him, 
and  turned  towards  the  village.  A  woman  is  a  strange 
creature — yes,  like  that!  He  refused  to  go  and  leave 
her.  She  was  in  danger,  and  he  would  share  it,  what- 
ever it  might  be.  So,  though  she  prayed  him  not,  he 
went  back  with  her;  and  when  she  saw  that  he  would 
go  in  spite  of  all,  she  was  glad :  which  is  like  a  woman. 

"When  he  entered  the  tent  again,  he  guessed  her 
danger,  for  he  stepped  over  the  bodies  of  two  dead 
men.  She  had  killed  them.  As  she  turned  at  the 
door  to  go  to  her  own  tent,  another  woman  faced  her. 
It  was  the  wife  of  the  king,  who  had  suspected,  and 
had  now  found  out.  Who  can  tell  what  it  was? 
Jealousy,  perhaps.  The  Great  Slave  could  tell,  maybe, 
if  he  could  speak,  for  a  man  always  knows  when  a 
woman  sets  him  high.  Anyhow,  that  was  the  way  it 
stood.  In  a  moment  the  girl  was  marched  back  to 
her  tent,  and  all  the  camp  heard  a  wicked  lie  of  the 
widow  of  the  king's  son. 

"To  it  there  was  an  end  after  the  way  of  their  laws. 


82  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

The  woman  should  die  by  fire,  and  the  man,  as  the 
king  might  will.  So  there  was  a  great  gathering  in  the 
place  where  we  are,  and  the  king  sat  against  that  big 
white  stone,  which  is  now  as  it  was  then.  Silence  was 
called,  and  they  brought  the  girl-widow  forth.  The 
king  spoke: 

'"Thou  who  hadst  a  prince  for  thy  husband,  didst 
go  in  the  night  to  the  tent  of  the  slave  who  killed  thy 
husband;  whereby  thou  also  becamest  a  slave,  and 
didst  shame  the  greatness  which  was  given  thee.  Thou 
shalt  die,  as  has  been  set  in  our  laws.' 

"The  girl- widow  rose,  and  spoke.  'I  did  not  know, 
O  king,  that  he  whom  thou  madest  a  slave  slew  my 
husband,  the  prince  of  our  people,  and  thy  son.  That 
was  not  told  me.  But  had  I  known  it,  still  would  I 
have  set  him  free,  for  thy  son  was  killed  in  fair  battle, 
and  this  man  deserves  not  slavery  or  torture.  I  did 
seek  the  tent  of  the  Great  Slave,  and  it  was  to  set  him 
free — no  more.  For  that  did  I  go,  and,  for  the  rest, 
my  soul  is  open  to  the  Spirit  Who  Sees.  I  have  done 
naught,  and  never  did,  nor  ever  will,  that  might  shame 
a  king,  or  the  daughter  of  a  king,  or  the  wife  of  a  king, 
or  a  woman.  If  to  set  a  great  captive  free  is  death  for 
me,  then  am  I  ready.  I  will  answer  all  pure  women 
in  the  far  Camp  of  the  Great  Fires  without  fear. 
There  is  no  more,  0  king,  that  I  may  say,  but  this: 
she  who  dies  by  fire,  being  of  noble  blood,  may  choose 
who  shall  light  the  faggots — is  it  not  so?' 

"Then  the  king  replied:  'It  is  so.     Such  is  our  law.' 

"There  was  counselling  between  the  king  and  his 
oldest  men,  and  so  long  were  they  handling  the  matter 
backwards  and  forwards  that  it  seemed  she  might  go 
free.  But  the  king's  wife,  seeing,  came  and  spoke  to 
the  king  and  the  others,  crying  out  for  the  honour  of 


THE   LAKE   OF  THE  GREAT  SLAVE     83 

her  dead  son;  so  that  in  a  moment  of  anger  they  all 
cried  out  for  death. 

"When  the  king  said  again  to  the  girl  that  she  must 
die  by  fire,  she  answered :  '  It  is  as  the  gods  will.  But 
it  is  so,  as  I  said,  that  I  may  choose  who  shall  light 
the  fires?' 

"The  king  answered  yes,  and  asked  her  whom  she 
chose.  She  pointed  towards  the  Great  Slave.  And 
all,  even  the  king  and  his  councillors,  wondered,  for 
they  knew  little  of  the  heart  of  women.  What  is  a 
man  with  a  matter  like  that?  Nothing — nothing  at 
all.  They  would  have  set  this  for  punishment:  that 
she  should  ask  for  it  was  beyond  them.  Yes,  even  the 
king's  wife — it  was  beyond  her.  But  the  girl  herself, 
see  you,  was  it  not  this  way? — If  she  died  by  the  hand 
of  him  she  loved,  then  it  would  be  easy,  for  she  could 
forget  the  pain,  in  the  thought  that  his  heart  would  ache 
for  her,  and  that  at  the  very  last  he  might  care,  and 
she  should  see  it.  She  was  great  hi  her  way  also — 
that  girl,  two  hundred  years  ago. 

" AlorSj  they  led  her  a  little  distance  off, — there  is 
the  spot,  where  you  see  the  ground  heave  a  little, — 
and  the  Great  Slave  was  brought  up.  The  king  told 
him  why  the  girl  was  to  die.  He  went  like  stone, 
looking,  looking  at  them.  He  knew  that  the  girl's 
heart  was  like  a  little  child's,  and  the  shame  and  cruelty 
of  the  thing  froze  him  silent  for  a  minute,  and  the 
colour  flew  from  his  face  to  here  and  there  on  his  body, 
as  a  flame  on  marble.  The  cords  began  to  beat  and 
throb  in  his  neck  and  on  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  gave 
out  fire  like  flint  on  an  arrow-head. 

"Then  he  began  to  talk.  He  could  not  say  much, 
for  he  knew  so  little  of  their  language.  But  it  was 
'No!'  every  other  word.  'No — no — no — no!'  the 


84  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

words  ringing  from  his  chest.  'She  is  good!'  he  said. 
'The  other — no!'  and  he  made  a  motion  with  his 
hand.  'She  must  not  die — no!  Evil?  It  is  a  lie!  I 
will  kill  each  man  that  says  it,  one  by  one,  if  he  dares 
come  forth.  She  tried  to  save  me — well?'  Then  he 
made  them  know  that  he  was  of  high  place  in  a  far 
country,  and  that  a  man  like  him  would  not  tell  a  lie. 
That  pleased  the  king,  for  he  was  proud,  and  he  saw 
that  the  Slave  was  of  better  stuff  than  himself.  Be- 
sides, the  king  was  a  brave  man,  and  he  had  strength, 
and  more  than  once  he  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  chest 
of  the  other,  as  one  might  on  a  grand  animal.  Per- 
haps, even  then,  they  might  have  spared  the  girl  was 
it  not  for  the  queen.  She  would  not  hear  of  it.  Then 
they  tried  the  Great  Slave,  and  he  was  found  guilty. 
The  queen  sent  him  word  to  beg  for  pardon.  So  he 
stood  out  and  spoke  to  the  queen.  She  sat  up  straight, 
with  pride  in  her  eyes,  for  was  it  not  a  great  prince,  as 
she  thought,  asking?  But  a  cloud  fell  on  her  face,  for 
he  begged  the  girl's  life.  Since  there  must  be  death, 
let  him  die,  and  die  by  fire  in  her  place!  It  was  then 
two  women  cried  out:  the  poor  girl  for  joy — not  at 
the  thought  that  her  life  would  be  saved,  but  because 
she  thought  the  man  loved  her  now,  or  he  would  not 
offer  to  die  for  her;  and  the  queen  for  hate,  because 
she  thought  the  same.  You  can  guess  the  rest:  they 
were  both  to  die,  though  the  king  was  sorry  for  the 
man. 

"The  king's  speaker  stood  out  and  asked  them  if 
they  had  anything  to  say.  The  girl  stepped  forward, 
her  face  without  any  fear,  but  a  kind  of  noble  pride 
in  it,  and  said:  'I  am  ready,  0  king/ 

"The  Great  Slave  bowed  his  head,  and  was  thinking 
much.  They  asked  him  again,  and  he  waved  his  hand 


THE  LAKE  OF  THE  GREAT  SLAVE      85 

at.  them.  The  king  spoke  up  in  anger,  and  then  he 
smiled  and  said:  'O  king,  I  am  not  ready;  if  I  die,  I 
die.'  Then  he  fell  to  thinking  again.  But  once  more 
the  king  spoke:  'Thou  shalt  surely  die,  but  not  by 
fire,  nor  now;  nor  till  we  have  come  to  our  great  camp 
in  our  own  country.  There  thou  shalt  die.  But  the 
woman  shall  die  at  the  going  down  of  the  sun.  She 
shall  die  by  fire,  and  thou  shalt  light  the  faggots  for 
the  burning.' 

"The  Great  Slave  said  he  would  not  do  it,  not 
though  he  should  die  a  hundred  deaths.  Then  the 
king  said  that  it  was  the  woman's  right  to  choose  who 
should  start  the  fire,  and  he  had  given  his  word,  which 
should  not  be  broken. 

"When  the  Great  Slave  heard  this  he  was  wild  for  a 
little,  and  then  he  guessed  altogether  what  was  in  the 
girl's  mind.  Was  not  this  the  true  thing  in  her,  the 
very  truest?  Mais  oui!  That  was  what  she  wished 
— to  die  by  his  hand  rather  than  by  any  other;  and 
something  troubled  his  breast,  and  a  cloud  came  in  his 
eyes,  so  that  for  a  moment  he  could  not  see.  He 
looked  at  the  girl,  so  serious,  eye  to  eye.  Perhaps  she 
understood.  So,  after  a  tune,  he  got  calm  as  the  farthest 
light  in  the  sky,  his  face  shining  among  them  all  with 
a  look  none  could  read.  He  sat  down,  and  wrote  upon 
pieces  of  bark  with  a  spear-point — those  bits  of  bark 
I  have  seen  also  at  Fort  O'Glory.  He  pierced  them 
through  with  dried  strings  of  the  slippery-elm  tree,  and 
with  the  king's  consent  gave  them  to  the  Company's 
man,  who  had  become  one  of  the  people,  telling  him, 
if  ever  he  was  free,  or  could  send  them  to  the  Company, 
he  must  do  so.  The  man  promised,  and  shame  came 
upon  him  that  he  had  let  the  other  suffer  alone;  and 
he  said  he  was  willing  to  fight  and  die  if  the  Great 


86  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Slave  gave  the  word.  But  he  would  not;  and  he 
urged  that  it  was  right  for  the  man  to  save  his  life. 
For  himself,  no.  It  could  never  be;  and  if  he  must 
die,  he  must  die. 

"You  see,  a  great  man  must  always  live  alone  and 
die  alone,  when  there  are  only  such  people  about  him. 
So,  now  that  the  letters  were  written,  he  sat  upon  the 
ground  and  thought,  looking  often  towards  the  girl, 
who  was  placed  apart,  with  guards  near.  The  king 
sat  thinking  also.  He  could  not  guess  why  the  Great 
Slave  should  give  the  letters  now,  since  he  was  not  yet 
to  die,  nor  could  the  Company's  man  show  a  reason 
when  the  king  asked  him.  So  the  king  waited,  and 
told  the  guards  to  see  that  the  Great  Slave  did  not  kill 
himself. 

"But  the  queen  wanted  the  death  of  the  girl,  and 
was  glad  beyond  telling  that  the  Slave  must  light  the 
faggots.  She  was  glad  when  she  saw  the  young  braves 
bring  a  long  sapling  from  the  forest,  and,  digging  a 
hole,  put  it  stoutly  in  the  ground,  and  fetch  wood, 
and  heap  it  about. 

"The  Great  Slave  noted  that  the  bark  of  the  sap- 
ling had  not  been  stripped,  and  more  than  once  he 
measured,  with  his  eye,  the  space  between  the  stake 
and  the  shores  of  the  Lake:  he  did  this  most  private, 
so  that  no  one  saw  but  the  girl. 

"At  last  the  time  was  come.  The  Lake  was  all  rose 
and  gold  out  there  in  the  west,  and  the  water  so  still- 
so  still.  The  cool,  moist  scent  of  the  leaves  and  grass 
came  out  from  the  woods  and  up  from  the  plain,  and 
the  world  was  so  full  of  content  that  a  man's  heart 
could  cry  out,  even  as  now,  while  we  look — eh,  is  it  not 
good?  See  the  deer  drinking  on  the  other  shore  there ! " 

Suddenly  Pierre  became  silent,  as  if  he  had  forgotten 


THE  LAKE  OF  THE  GREAT  SLAVE      87 

the  story  altogether.  Tybalt  was  impatient,  but  he 
did  not  speak.  He  took  a  twig,  and  in  the  sand  he 
wrote  " Charles  Rex"  Pierre  glanced  down  and  saw  it. 

"There  was  beating  of  the  little  drums,"  he  con- 
tinued, "and  the  crying  of  the  king's  speaker;  and 
soon  all  was  ready,  and  the  people  gathered  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  the  king  and  the  queen,  and  the  chief  men 
nearer;  and  the  girl  was  brought  forth. 

"As  they  led  her  past  the  Great  Slave,  she  looked 
into  his  eyes,  and  afterwards  her  heart  was  glad,  for 
she  knew  that  at  the  last  he  would  be  near  her,  and  that 
his  hand  should  light  the  fires.  Two  men  tied  her  to 
the  stake.  Then  the  king's  man  cried  out  again,  telling 
of  her  crime,  and  calling  for  her  death.  The  Great 
Slave  was  brought  near.  No  one  knew  that  the  palms 
of  his  hands  had  been  rubbed  in  the  sand  for  a  pur- 
pose. When  he  was  brought  beside  the  stake,  a  torch 
was  given  him  by  his  guards.  He  looked  at  the  girl, 
and  she  smiled  at  him,  and  said:  'Good-bye.  For- 
give. I  die  not  afraid,  and  happy.' 

"He  did  not  answer,  but  stooped  and  lit  the  sticks 
here  and  there.  All  at  once  he  snatched  a  burning 
stick,  and  it  and  the  torch  he  thrust,  like  lightning,  in 
the  faces  of  his  guards,  blinding  them.  Then  he  sprang 
to  the  stake,  and,  with  a  huge  pull,  tore  it  from  the 
ground,  girl  and  all,  and  rushed  to  the  shore  of  the 
Lake,  with  her  tied  so  in  his  arms. 

"He  had  been  so  swift  that,  at  first,  no  one  stirred. 
He  reached  the  shore,  rushed  into  the  water,  dragging 
a  boat  out  with  one  hand  as  he  did  so,  and,  putting  the 
girl  in,  seized  a  paddle  and  was  away  with  a  start.  A 
few  strokes,  and  then  he  stopped,  picked  up  a  hatchet 
that  was  in  the  boat  with  many  spears,  and  freed  the 
girl.  Then  he  paddled  on,  trusting,  with  a  small  hope, 


88  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

that  through  his  great  strength  he  could  keep  ahead 
till  darkness  came,  and  then,  in  the  gloom,  they  might 
escape.  The  girl  also  seized  an  oar,  and  the  canoe — 
the  king's  own  canoe — came  on  like  a  swallow. 

"But  the  tribe  was  after  them  in  fifty  canoes,  some 
coming  straight  along,  some  spreading  out  to  close  in 
later.  It  was  no  equal  game,  for  these  people  were  so 
quick  and  strong  with  the  oars,  and  they  were  a  hun- 
dred or  more  to  two.  There  could  be  but  one  end. 
It  was  what  the  Great  Slave  had  looked  for:  to  fight 
till  the  last  breath.  He  should  fight  for  the  woman 
who  had  risked  all  for  him — just  a  common  woman  of 
the  north,  but  it  seemed  good  to  lose  his  life  for  her; 
and  she  would  be  happy  to  die  with  him. 

"So  they  stood  side  by  side  when  the  spears  and 
arrows  fell  round  them,  and  they  gave  death  and  wounds 
for  wounds  in  their  own  bodies.  When,  at  last,  the 
Indians  climbed  into  the  canoe,  the  Great  Slave  was 
dead  of  many  wounds,  and  the  woman,  all  gashed,  lay 
with  her  lips  to  his  wet,  red  cheek.  She  smiled  as  they 
dragged  her  away;  and  her  soul  hurried  after  his  to 
the  Camp  of  the  Great  Fires." 

It  was  long  before  Tybalt  spoke,  but  at  last  he  said : 
"  If  I  could  but  tell  it  as  you  have  told  it  to  me,  Pierre ! " 

Pierre  answered:  "Tell  it  with  your  tongue,  and 
this  shall  be  nothing  to  it,  for  what  am  I?  What 
English  have  I,  a  gipsy  of  the  snows?  But  do  not 
write  it,  mais  non!  Writing  wanders  from  the  matter. 
The  eyes,  and  the  tongue,  and  the  tune,  that  is  the 
thing.  But  in  a  book — it  will  sound  all  cold  and  thin. 
It  is  for  the  north,  for  the  camp-fire,  for  the  big  talk 
before  a  man  rolls  into  his  blanket,  and  is  at  peace. 
No,  no  writing,  monsieur.  Speak  it  everywhere  with 
your  tongue." 


THE  LAKE  OF  THE  GREAT  SLAVE      89 

"And  so  I  would,  were  my  tongue  as  yours.  Pierre, 
tell  me  more  about  the  letters  at  Fort  O' Glory.  You 
know  his  name — what  was  it?" 

"You  said  five  hundred  dollars  for  one  of  those 
letters.  Is  it  not?" 

"Yes."    Tybalt  had  a  new  hope. 

"T'sh!  What  do  I  want  of  five  hundred  dollars! 
But,  here,  answer  me  a  question:  Was  the  lady — his 
wife,  she  that  was  left  in  England — a  good  woman? 
Answer  me  out  of  your  own  sense,  and  from  my  story. 
If  you  say  right  you  shall  have  a  letter — one  that  I 
have  by  me." 

Tybalt's  heart  leapt  into  his  throat.  After  a  little 
he  said  huskily:  "She  was  a  good  woman — he  believed 
her  that,  and  so  shall  I." 

"You  think  he  could  not  have  been  so  great  unless, 
eh?  And  that  'Charles  Rex/  what  of  him?" 

"What  good  can  it  do  to  call  him  bad  now?" 

Without  a  word,  Pierre  drew  from  a  leather  wallet 
a  letter,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  fast-setting  sun,  Tybalt 
read  it,  then  read  it  again,  and  yet  again. 

"Poor  soul!  poor  lady!"  he  said.  "Was  ever  such 
another  letter  written  to  any  man?  And  it  came  too 
late;  this,  with  the  king's  recall,  came  too  late!" 

"So — so.  He  died  out  there  where  that  wild  duck 
flies — a  Great  Slave.  Years  after,  the  Company's 
man  brought  word  of  all." 

Tybalt  was  looking  at  the  name  on  the  outside  of 
the  letter. 

"How  do  they  call  that  name?"  asked  Pierre.  "It 
is  like  none  I've  seen — no." 

Tybalt  shook  his  head  sorrowfully,  and  did  not 
answer. 


THE  RED  PATROL 

ST.  AUGUSTINE'S,  Canterbury,  had  given  him  its  licen- 
tiate's hood,  the  Bishop  of  Rupert's  Land  had  ordained 
him,  and  the  North  had  swallowed  him  up.  He  had 
gone  forth  with  surplice,  stole,  hood,  a  sermon-case,  the 
prayer-book,  and  that  other  Book  of  all.  Indian  camps, 
trappers'  huts,  and  Company's  posts  had  given  him 
hospitality,  and  had  heard  him  with  patience  and  con- 
sideration. At  first  he  wore  the  surplice,  stole,  and  hood, 
took  the  eastward  position,  and  intoned  the  service, 
and  no  man  said  him  nay,  but  watched  him  curiously 
and  was  sorrowful — he  was  so  youthful,  clear  of  eye, 
and  bent  on  doing  heroical  things. 

But  little  by  little  there  came  a  change.  The  hood 
was  left  behind  at  Fort  0' Glory,  where  it  provoked 
the  derision  of  the  Methodist  missionary  who  followed 
him;  the  sermon-case  stayed  at  Fort  O'Battle;  and  at 
last  the  surplice  itself  was  put  by  at  the  Company's  post 
at  Yellow  Quill.  He  was  too  excited  and  in  earnest  at 
first  to  see  the  effect  of  his  ministrations,  but  there 
came  slowly  over  him  the  knowledge  that  he  was  talking 
into  space.  He  felt  something  returning  on  him  out  of 
the  ah*  into  which  he  talked,  and  buffeting  him.  It  was 
the  Spirit  of  the  North,  in  which  lives  the  terror,  the 
large  heart  of  things,  the  soul  of  the  past.  He  awoke  to 
his  inadequacy,  to  the  fact  that  all  these  men  to  whom 
he  talked,  listened,  and  only  listened,  and  treated  him 
with  a  gentleness  which  was  almost  pity — as  one  might 
a  woman.  He  had  talked  doctrine,  the  Church,  the 

90 


THE  RED  PATROL  91 

sacraments,  and  at  Fort  O'Battle  he  faced  definitely  the 
futility  of  his  work.  What  was  to  blame — the  Church 
• — religion — himself? 

It  was  at  Fort  O'Battle  that  he  met  Pierre,  and  heard 
a  voice  say  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  walked  out  into  the 
icy  dusk:  "  The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness  .  .  . 
and  he  had  sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  his  food  was 
locusts  and  wild  honey." 

He  turned  to  see  Pierre,  who  in  the  large  room  of  the 
Post  had  sat  and  watched  him  as  he  prayed  and 
preached.  He  had  remarked  the  keen,  curious  eye,  the 
musing  look,  the  habitual  disdain  at  the  lips.  It  had 
all  touched  him,  confused  him;  and  now  he  had  a  kind 
of  anger. 

"You  know  it  so  well,  why  don't  you  preach  your- 
self?" he  said  feverishly. 

"I  have  been  preaching  all  my  Me,"  Pierre  answered 
drily. 

"The  devil's  games:  cards  and  law-breaking;  and 
you  sneer  at  men  who  try  to  bring  lost  sheep  into  the 
fold." 

"The  fold  of  the  Church — yes,  I  understand  all  that," 
Pierre  answered.  "I  have  heard  you  and  the  priests 
of  my  father's  Church  talk.  Which  is  right?  But  as 
for  me,  I  am  a  missionary.  Cards,  law-breaking — these 
are  what  I  have  done;  but  these  are  not  what  I  have 
preached." 

"What  have  you  preached?"  asked  the  other,  walk- 
ing on  into  the  fast-gathering  night,  beyond  the  Post 
and  the  Indian  lodges,  into  the  wastes  where  frost  and 
silence  lived. 

Pierre  waved  his  hand  towards  space.  "This,"  he 
said  suggestively. 

"What's  this!"  asked  the  other  fretfully. 


92  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"The  thing  you  feel  round  you  here." 

"I  feel  the  cold,"  was  the  petulant  reply. 

"I  feel  the  immense,  the  far  off,"  said  Pierre  slowly. 

The  other  did  not  understand  as  yet.  "  You've 
learned  big  words,"  he  said  disdainfully. 

"No;  big  things,"  rejoined  Pierre  sharply — "a  few." 

"Let  me  hear  you  preach  them,"  half  snarled  Sher- 
burne. 

"You  will  not  like  to  hear  them — no." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  think  about  them  one  way  or 
another,"  was  the  contemptuous  reply. 

Pierre's  eyes  half  closed.  The  young,  impetuous  half- 
baked  college  man.  To  set  his  little  knowledge  against 
his  own  studious  vagabondage!  At  that  instant  he 
determined  to  play  a  game  and  win;  to  turn  this  man 
into  a  vagabond  also;  to  see  John  the  Baptist  become  a 
Bedouin.  He  saw  the  doubt,  the  uncertainty,  the  shat- 
tered vanity  in  the  youth's  mind,  the  missionary's  half 
retreat  from  his  cause.  A  crisis  was  at  hand.  The  youth 
was  fretful  with  his  great  theme,  instead  of  being  severe 
upon  himself.  For  days  and  days  Pierre's  presence  had 
acted  on  Sherburne  silently  but  forcibly.  He  had 
listened  to  the  vagabond's  philosophy,  and  knew  that  it 
was  of  a  deeper — so  much  deeper — knowledge  of  life 
than  he  himself  possessed,  and  he  knew  also  that  it  was 
terribly  true;  he  was  not  wise  enough  to  see  that  it 
was  only  true  hi  part.  The  influence  had  been  insidious, 
delicate,  cunning,  and  he  himself  was  only  "a  voice 
crying  in  the  wilderness,"  without  the  simple  creed  of 
that  voice.  He  knew  that  the  Methodist  missionary 
was  believed  in  more,  if  less  liked,  than  himself. 

Pierre  would  work  now  with  all  the  latent  devilry  of 
his  nature  to  unseat  the  man  from  his  saddle. 

"You  have  missed  the  great  thing,  alors,  though  you 


THE  RED  PATROL  93 

have  been  up  here  two  years,"  he  said.  "You  do  not 
feel,  you  do  not  know.  What  good  have  you  done? 
Who  has  got  on  his  knees  and  changed  his  life  because 
of  you?  Who  has  told  his  beads  or  longed  for  the  Mass 
because  of  you?  Tell  me,  who  has  ever  said,  *  You  have 
showed  me  how  to  live '?  Even  the  women,  though  they 
cry  sometimes  when  you  sing-song  the  prayers,  go  on 
just  the  same  when  the  little  'bless-you'  is  over.  Why? 
Most  of  them  know  a  better  thing  than  you  tell  them. 
Here  is  the  truth :  you  are  little — eh,  so  very  little.  You 
never  lied — direct;  you  never  stole  the  waters  that  are 
sweet;  you  never  knew  the  big  dreams  that  come  with 
wine  in  the  dead  of  night;  you  never  swore  at  your  own 
soul  and  heard  it  laugh  back  at  you;  you  never  put 
your  face  in  the  breast  of  a  woman — do  not  look  so  wild 
at  me! — you  never  had  a  child;  you  never  saw  the  world 
and  yourself  through  the  doors  of  real  life.  You  never 
have  said,  'I  am  tired;  I  am  sick  of  all;  I  have  seen  all.' 
You  have  never  felt  what  came  after — understanding. 
Chut,  your  talk  is  for  children — and  missionaries.  You 
are  a  prophet  without  a  call,  you  are  a  leader  without  a 
man  to  lead,  you  are  less  than  a  child  up  here.  For  here 
the  children  feel  a  peace  in  their  blood  when  the  stars 
come  out,  and  a  joy  in  their  brains  when  the  dawn  comes 
up  and  reaches  a  yellow  hand  to  the  Pole,  and  the  west 
wind  shouts  at  them.  Holy  Mother !  we  in  the  far  north, 
we  feel  things,  for  all  the  great  souls  of  the  dead  are  up 
there  at  the  Pole  in  the  pleasant  land,  and  we  have  seen 
the  Scarlet  Hunter  and  the  Kimash  Hills.  You  have 
seen  nothing.  You  have  only  heard,  and  because,  like 
a  child,  you  have  never  sinned,  you  come  and  preach 
to  us!"  ' 

The  night  was  folding  down  fast,  all  the  stars  were 
shooting  out  into  then1  places,  and  in  the  north  the 


94  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

white  lights  of  the  aurora  were  flying  to  and  fro.  Pierre 
had  spoken  with  a  slow  force  and  precision,  yet,  as  he 
went  on,  his  eyes  almost  became  fixed  on  those  shift- 
ing flames,  and  a  deep  look  came  into  them,  as  he  was 
moved  by  his  own  eloquence.  Never  in  his  life  had  he 
made  so  long  a  speech  at  once.  He  paused,  and  then 
said  suddenly:  "Come,  let  us  run." 

He  broke  into  a  long,  sliding  trot,  and  Sherburne  did 
the  same.  With  their  arms  gathered  to  their  sides  they 
ran  for  quite  two  miles  without  a  word,  until  the  heavy 
breathing  of  the  clergyman  brought  Pierre  up  suddenly. 

"You  do  not  run  well,"  he  said;  "you  do  not  run 
with  the  whole  body.  You  know  so  little.  Did  you 
ever  think  how  much  such  men  as  Jacques  Parfaite 
know?  The  earth  they  read  like  a  book,  the  sky  like 
an  animal's  ways,  and  a  man's  face  like — like  the  writ- 
ing on  the  wall." 

"Like  the  writing  on  the  wall,"  said  Sherburne,  mu- 
sing; for,  under  the  other's  influence,  his  petulance  was 
gone.  He  knew  that  he  was  not  a  part  of  this  life,  that 
he  was  ignorant  of  it;  of,  indeed,  all  that  was  vital  in 
it  and  in  men  and  women. 

"I  think  you  began  this  too  soon.  You  should  have 
waited;  then  you  might  have  done  good.  But  here  we 
are  wiser  than  you.  You  have  no  message — no  real 
message — to  give  us;  down  in  your  heart  you  are  not 
even  sure  of  yourself." 

Sherburne  sighed.  "I'm  of  no  use,"  he  said.  "I'll 
get  out.  I'm  no  good  at  all." 

Pierre's  eyes  glistened.  He  remembered  how,  the 
day  before,  this  youth  had  said  hot  words  about  his 
card-playing;  had  called  him — in  effect — a  thief;  had 
treated  him  as  an  inferior,  as  became  one  who  was  of 
St.  Augustine's,  Canterbury. 


95 

"It  is  the  great  thing  to  be  free,"  Pierre  said,  "that 
no  man  shall  look  for  this  or  that  of  you.  Just  to  do  as 
far  as  you  feel,  as  far  as  you  are  sure — that  is  the  best. 
In  this  you  are  not  sure — no.  Hein,  is  it  not?" 

Sherburne  did  not  answer.  Anger,  distrust,  wretched- 
ness, the  spirit  of  the  alien,  loneliness,  were  alive  in  him. 
The  magnetism  of  this  deep  penetrating  man,  possessed 
of  a  devil,  was  on  him,  and  in  spite  of  every  reasonable 
instinct  he  turned  to  him  for  companionship. 

"It's  been  a  failure,"  he  burst  out,  "and  I'm  sick  of 
it — sick  of  it;  but  I  can't  give  it  up." 

Pierre  said  nothing.  They  had  come  to  what  seemed 
a  vast  semicircle  of  ice  and  snow,  a  huge  amphitheatre 
in  the  plains.  It  was  wonderful :  a  great  round  wall  on 
which  the  northern  lights  played,  into  which  the  stars 
peered.  It  was  open  towards  the  north,  and  in  one  side 
was  a  fissure  shaped  like  a  Gothic  arch.  Pierre  pointed 
to  it,  and  they  did  not  speak  till  they  had  passed  through 
it.  Like  great  seats  the  steppes  of  snow  ranged  round, 
and  in  the  centre  was  a  kind  of  plateau  of  ice,  as  it  might 
seem  a  stage  or  an  altar.  To  the  north  there  was  a  great 
opening,  the  lost  arc  of  the  circle,  through  which  the 
mystery  of  the  Pole  swept  in  and  out,  or  brooded  there 
where  no  man  may  question  it.  Pierre  stood  and  looked. 
Time  and  again  he  had  been  here,  and  had  asked  the 
same  question:  Who  had  ever  sat  on  those  frozen  benches 
and  looked  down  at  the  drama  on  that  stage  below? 
Who  played  the  parts?  Was  it  a  farce  or  a  sacrifice?  To 
him  had  been  given  the  sorrow  of  imagination,  and  he 
wondered  and  wondered.  Or  did  they  come  still — those 
strange  people,  whoever  they  were — and  watch  ghostly 
gladiators  at  their  fatal  sport?  If  they  came,  when  was 
it?  Perhaps  they  were  there  now  unseen.  In  spite  of 
himself  he  shuddered.  Who  was  the  keeper  of  the  house? 


96  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Through  his  mind  there  ran — pregnant  to  him  for  the 
first  time — a  chanson  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter,  the  Red 
Patrol,  who  guarded  the  sleepers  in  the  Kimash  Hills 
against  the  time  they  should  awake  and  possess  the 
land  once  more:  the  friend  of  the  lost,  the  lover  of  the 
vagabond,  and  of  all  who  had  no  home: 

"Strangers  come  to  the  outer  walls — 

(Why  do  the  sleepers  stir?) 
Strangers  enter  the  Judgment  House — 

(Why  do  the  sleepers  sigh  ?) 
Slow  they  rise  in  their  judgment  seats, 
Sieve  and  measure  the  naked  souls, 
Then  with  a  blessing  return  to  sleep — 

(Quiet  the  Judgment  House.} 
Lone  and  sick  are  the  vagrant  souls — 

(When  shall  the  world  come  home  f)  " 

He  reflected  upon  the  words,  and  a  feeling  of  awe 
came  over  him,  for  he  had  been  in  the  White  Valley 
and  had  seen  the  Scarlet  Hunter.  But  there  came  at 
once  also  a  sinister  desire  to  play  a  game  for  this  man's 
life-work  here.  He  knew  that  the  other  was  ready  for 
any  wild  move;  there  was  upon  him  the  sense  of  failure 
and  disgust;  he  was  acted  on  by  the  magic  of  the  night, 
the  terrible  delight  of  the  scene,  and  that  might  .be 
turned  to  advantage. 

He  said:  "  Am  I  not  right?  There  is  something  in  the 
world  greater  than  the  creeds  and  the  book  of  the  Mass. 
To  be  free  and  to  enjoy,  that  is  the  thing.  Never 
before  have  you  felt  what  you  feel  here  now.  And  I 
will  show  you  more.  I  will  teach  you  how  to  know,  I 
will  lead  you  through  all  the  north  and  make  you  to 
understand  the  big  things  of  life.  Then,  when  you  have 
known,  you  can  return  if  you  will.  But  now — see :  I  will 


THE  RED  PATROL  97 

tell  you  what  I  will  do.  Here  on  this  great  platform  we 
will  play  a  game  of  cards.  There  is  a  man  whose  life 
I  can  ruin.  If  you  win  I  promise  to  leave  him  safe,  and 
to  go  out  of  the  far  north  for  ever,  to  go  back  to  Quebec  " 
— he  had  a  kind  of  gaming  fever  in  his  veins.  "If  I 
win,  you  give  up  the  Church,  leaving  behind  the  prayer- 
book,  the  Bible  and  all,  coming  with  me  to  do  what  I 
shall  tell  you,  for  the  passing  of  twelve  moons.  It  is  a 
great  stake — will  you  play  it?  Come" — he  leaned  for- 
ward, looking  into  the  other's  face — "will  you  play  it? 
They  drew  lots — those  people  in  the  Bible.  We  will 
draw  lots,  and  see,  eh? — and  see?" 

"I  accept  the  stake,"  said  Sherburne,  with  a  little 
gasp. 

Without  a  word  they  went  upon  that  platform,  shaped 
like  an  altar,  and  Pierre  at  once  drew  out  a  pack  of 
cards,  shuffling  them  with  his  mittened  hands.  Then 
he  knelt  down  and  said,  as  he  laid  out  the  cards  one  by 
one  till  there  were  thirty:  "Whoever  gets  the  ace  of 
hearts  first,  wins — hein?" 

Sherburne  nodded  and  knelt  also.  The  cards  lay 
back  upwards  in  three  rows.  For  a  moment  neither 
stirred.  The  white,  metallic  stars  saw  it,  the  small 
crescent  moon  beheld  it,  and  the  deep  wonder  of  night 
made  it  strange  and  dreadful.  Once  or  twice  Sher- 
burne looked  round  as  though  he  felt  others  present, 
and  once  Pierre  looked  out  to  the  wide  portals,  as  though 
he  saw  some  one  entering.  But  there  was  nothing  to  the 
eye — nothing.  Presently  Pierre  said:  "Begin." 

The  other  drew  a  card,  then  Pierre  drew  one,  then 
the  other,  then  Pierre  again;  and  so  on.  How  slow  the 
game  was!  Neither  hurried,  but  both,  kneeling,  looked 
and  looked  at  the  card  long  before  drawing  and  turning 
it  over.  The  stake  was  weighty,  and  Pierre  loved  the 


98  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

game  more  than  he  cared  about  the  stake.  Sherburne 
cared  nothing  about  the  game,  but  all  his  soul  seemed 
set  upon  the  hazard.  There  was  not  a  sound  out  of  the 
night,  nothing  stirring  but  the  Spirit  of  the  North. 
Twenty,  twenty-five  cards  were  drawn,  and  then  Pierre 
paused. 

"In  a  minute  all  will  be  settled,"  he  said.  "Will  you 
go  on,  or  will  you  pause?" 

But  Sherburne  had  got  the  madness  of  chance  in  his 
veins  now,  and  he  said:  "Quick,  quick,  go  on!" 

Pierre  drew,  but  the  great  card  held  back.  Sherburne 
drew,  then  Pierre  again.  There  were  three  left.  Sher- 
burne's  face  was  as  white  as  the  snow  around  him.  His 
mouth  was  open,  and  a  little  white  cloud  of  frosted 
breath  came  out.  His  hand  hungered  for  the  card,  drew 
back,  then  seized  it.  A  moan  broke  from  him.  Then 
Pierre,  with  a  little  weird  laugh,  reached  out  and  turned 
over — the  ace  of  hearts! 

They  both  stood  up.  Pierre  put  the  cards  in  his 
pocket. 

"You  have  lost,"  he  said. 

Sherburne  threw  back  his  head  with  a  reckless  laugh. 
The  laugh  seemed  to  echo  and  echo  through  the  amphi- 
theatre, and  then  from  the  frozen  seats,  the  hillocks  of 
ice  and  snow,  there  was  a  long,  low  sound,  as  of  sorrow, 
and  a  voice  came  after: 

" Sleep — sleep!  Blessed  be  the  just  and  the  keepers  of 
vows." 

Sherburne  stood  shaking,  as  though  he  had  seen  a 
host  of  spirits.  His  eyes  on  the  great  seats  of  judgment, 
he  said  to  Pierre: 

"See,  see,  how  they  sit  there,  grey  and  cold  and 
awful!" 

But  Pierre  shook  his  head. 


THE  RED  PATROL  99 

" There  is  nothing,"  he  said,  " nothing;"  yet  he  knew 
that  Sherburne  was  looking  upon  the  men  of  judgment 
of  the  Kimash  Hills,  the  sleepers.  He  looked  round, 
half  fearfully,  for  if  here  were  those  great  children  of  the 
ages,  where  was  the  keeper  of  the  house,  the  Red  Patrol? 

Even  as  he  thought,  a  figure  in  scarlet  with  a  noble 
face  and  a  high  pride  of  bearing  stood  before  them,  not 
far  away.  Sherburne  clutched  his  arm. 

Then  the  Red  Patrol,  the  Scarlet  Hunter  spoke: 

"Why  have  you  sinned  your  sins  and  broken  your 
vows  within  our  house  of  judgment?  Know  ye  not  that 
in  the  new  springtime  of  the  world  ye  shall  be  outcast, 
because  ye  have  called  the  sleepers  to  judgment  before 
their  time?  But  I  am  the  hunter  of  the  lost.  Go  you," 
he  said  to  Sherburne,  pointing,  "where  a  sick  man  lies 
in  a  hut  in  the  Shikam  Valley.  In  his  soul  find  thine 
own  again."  Then  to  Pierre:  "For  thee,  thou  shalt 
know  the  desert  and  the  storm  and  the  lonely  hills; 
thou  shalt  neither  seek  nor  find.  Go,  and  return  no 
more." 

The  two  men,  Sherburne  falteringly,  stepped  down 
and  moved  to  the  open  plain.  They  turned  at  the  great 
entrance  and  looked  back.  Where  they  had  stood  there 
rested  on  his  long  bow  the  Red  Patrol.  He  raised  it,  and 
a  flaming  arrow  flew  through  the  sky  towards  the  south. 
They  followed  its  course,  and  when  they  looked  back  a 
little  afterwards,  the  great  judgment-house  was  empty, 
and  the  whole  north  was  silent  as  the  sleepers. 

At  dawn  they  came  to  the  hut  in  the  Shikam  Valley, 
and  there  they  found  a  trapper  dying.  He  had  sinned 
greatly,  and  he  could  not  die  without  someone  to  show 
him  how,  to  tell  him  what  to  say  to  the  angel  of  the 
cross-roads. 

Sherburne,  kneeling  by  him,  felt  his  own  new  soul 


100  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

moved  by  a  holy  fire,  and,  first  praying  for  himself,  he 
said  to  the  sick  man:  "For  if  we  confess  our  sins,  He 
is  faithful  and  just  to  forgive  us  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse 
us  from  all  unrighteousness." 

Praying  for  both,  his  heart  grew  strong,  and  he  heard 
the  sick  man  say,  ere  he  journeyed  forth  to  the  cross- 
roads: 

"You  have  shown  me  the  way.    I  have  peace." 

"Speak  for  me  in  the  Presence,"  said  Sherburne 
softly. 

The  dying  man  could  not  answer,  but  that  moment, 
as  he  journeyed  forth  on  the  Far  Trail,  he  held  Sher- 
burne's  hand. 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN 

"WHY  don't  she  come  back,  father?" 

The  man  shook  his  head,  his  hand  fumbled  with  the 
wolf-skin  robe  covering  the  child,  and  he  made  no  reply. 

"She'd  come  if  she  knew  I  was  hurted,  wouldn't 
she?" 

The  father  nodded,  and  then  turned  restlessly  toward 
the  door,  as  though  expecting  someone.  The  look  was 
troubled,  and  the  pipe  he  held  was  not  alight,  though 
he  made  a  pretence  of  smoking. 

"Suppose  the  wild  cat  had  got  me,  she'd  be  sorry 
when  she  comes,  wouldn't  she?" 

There  was  no  reply  yet,  save  by  gesture,  the  language 
of  primitive  man;  but  the  big  body  shivered  a  little, 
and  the  uncouth  hand  felt  for  a  place  in  the  bed  where 
the  lad's  knee  made  a  lump  under  the  robe.  He  felt 
the  little  heap  tenderly,  but  the  child  winced. 

"S-sh,  but  that  hurts!  This  wolf-skin's  most  too 
much  on  me,  isn't  it,  father?" 

The  man  softly,  yet  awkwardly  too,  lifted  the  robe, 
folded  it  back,  and  slowly  uncovered  the  knee.  The  leg 
was  worn  away  almost  to  skin  and  bone,  but  the  knee 
itself  was  swollen  with  inflammation.  He  bathed  it  with 
some  water,  mixed  with  vinegar  and  herbs,  then  drew 
down  the  deer-skin  shirt  at  the  child's  shoulder,  and  did 
the  same  with  it.  Both  shoulder  and  knee  bore  the 
marks  of  teeth — where  a  huge  wild  cat  had  made  havoc 
— and  the  body  had  long  red  scratches. 

Presently  the  man  shook  his  head  sorrowfully,  and 

101 


102  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

covered  up  the  small  disfigured  frame  again,  but  this 
time  with  a  tanned  skin  of  the  caribou.  The  flames  of 
the  huge  wood  fire  dashed  the  walls  and  floor  with  a 
velvety  red  and  black,  and  the  large  iron  kettle,  bought 
of  the  Company  at  Fort  Sacrament,  puffed  out  geysers 
of  steam. 

The  place  was  a  low  hut  with  parchment  windows 
and  rough  mud-mortar  lumped  between  the  logs.  Skins 
hung  along  two  sides,  with  bullet-holes  and  knife-holes 
showing:  of  the  great  grey  wolf,  the  red  puma,  the 
bronze  hill-lion,  the  beaver,  the  bear,  and  the  sable; 
and  in  one  corner  was  a  huge  pile  of  them.  Bare  of  the 
usual  comforts  as  the  room  was,  it  had  a  sort  of  refine- 
ment also,  joined  to  an  inexpressible  loneliness;  you 
could  scarce  have  told  how  or  why. 

"Father,"  said  the  boy,  his  face  pinched  with  pain 
for  a  moment,  "it  hurts  so  all  over,  every  once  in  a 
while." 

His  fingers  caressed  the  leg  just  below  the  knee. 

"Father,"  he  suddenly  added,  "what  does  it  mean 
when  you  hear  a  bird  sing  in  the  middle  of  the  night?" 

The  woodsman  looked  down  anxiously  into  the  boy's 
face.  "It  hasn't  no  meaning,  Dominique.  There  ain't 
such  a  thing  on  the  Labrador  Heights  as  a  bird  singin' 
in  the  night.  That's  only  in  warm  countries  where 
there's  nightingales.  So — bien  sur!" 

The  boy  had  a  wise,  dreamy,  speculative  look. 
"Well,  I  guess  it  was  a  nightingale — it  didn't  sing 
like  any  I  ever  heard." 

The  look  of  nervousness  deepened  in  the  woodsman's 
face.  "What  did  it  sing  like,  Dominique?" 

"So  it  made  you  shiver.  You  wanted  it  to  go  on, 
and  yet  you  didn't  want  it.  It  was  pretty,  but  you  felt 
as  if  something  was  going  to  snap  inside  of  you." 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN    103 

"When  did  you  hear  it,  my  son?" 

"Twice  last  night — and — and  I  guess  it  was  Sunday 
the  other  tune.  I  don't  know,  for  there  hasn't  been  no 
Sunday  up  here  since  mother  went  away — has  there?" 

"Mebbenot." 

The  veins  were  beating  like  live  cords  in  the  man's 
throat  and  at  his  temples. 

"'Twas  just  the  same  as  Father  Corraine  bein'  here, 
when  mother  had  Sunday,  wasn't  it?" 

The  man  made  no  reply,  but  a  gloom  drew  down  his 
forehead,  and  his  lips  doubled  in  as  if  he  endured  phys- 
ical pain.  He  got  to  his  feet  and  paced  the  floor.  For 
weeks  he  had  listened  to  the  same  kind  of  talk  from  this 
wounded,  and,  as  he  thought,  dying  son,  and  he  was 
getting  less  and  less  able  to  bear  it.  The  boy  at  nine 
years  of  age  was,  in  manner  of  speech,  the  merest  child, 
but  his  thoughts  were  sometimes  large  and  wise.  The 
only  white  child  within  a  compass  of  three  hundred  miles 
or  so;  the  lonely  life  of  the  hills  and  plains,  so  austere 
in  whiter,  so  melted  to  a  sober  joy  in  summer;  listen- 
ing to  the  talk  of  his  elders  at  camp-fires  and  on  the 
hunting-trail,  when,  even  as  an  infant  almost,  he  was 
swung  in  a  blanket  from  a  tree  or  was  packed  in  the 
torch-crane  of  a  canoe;  and,  more  than  all,  the  care  of 
a  good,  loving — if  passionate — little  mother:  all  these 
had  made  him  far  wiser  than  his  years.  He  had  been 
hours  upon  hours  each  day  alone  with  the  birds,  and 
squirrels,  and  wild  animals,  and  something  of  the  keen 
scent  and  instinct  of  the  animal  world  had  entered  into 
his  body  and  brain,  so  that  he  felt  what  he  could  not 
understand. 

He  saw  that  he  had  worried  his  father,  and  it 
troubled  him.  He  thought  of  something. 

"Daddy,"  he  said,  "let  me  have  it." 


104  A  ROMANY  OF  THE   SNOWS 

A  smile  struggled  for  life  in  the  hunter's  face,  as  he 
turned  to  the  wall  and  took  down  the  skin  of  a  silver 
fox.  He  held  it  on  his  palm  for  a  moment,  looking  at  it 
in  an  interested,  satisfied  way,  then  he  brought  it  over 
and  put  it  into  the  child's  hands;  and  the  smile  now 
shaped  itself,  as  he  saw  an  eager  pale  face  buried  in  the 
soft  fur. 

"Good!  good!"  he  said  involuntarily. 

"Bon!  bon!"  said  the  boy's  voice  from  the  fur,  in 
the  language  of  his  mother,  who  added  a  strain  of  In- 
dian blood  to  her  French  ancestry. 

The  two  sat  there,  the  man  half-kneeling  on  the  low 
bed,  and  stroking  the  fur  very  gently.  It  could  scarcely 
be  thought  that  such  pride  should  be  spent  on  a  little 
pelt  by  a  mere  backwoodsman  and  his  nine-year-old  son. 
One  has  seen  a  woman  fingering  a  splendid  necklace,  her 
eyes  fascinated  by  the  bunch  of  warm,  deep  jewels — 
a  light  not  of  mere  vanity,  or  hunger,  or  avarice  in  her 
face — only  the  love  of  the  beautiful  thing.  But  this 
was  an  animal's  skin.  Did  they  feel  the  animal  under- 
neath it  yet,  giving  it  beauty,  life,  glory? 

The  silver-fox  skin  is  the  prize  of  the  north,  and  this 
one  was  of  the  boy's  own  harvesting.  While  his  father 
was  away  he  saw  the  fox  creeping  by  the  hut.  The  joy 
of  the  hunter  seized  him,  and  guided  his  eye  over  the 
sights  of  his  father's  rifle,  as  he  rested  the  barrel  on 
the  window-sill,  and  the  annual  was  his !  Now  his  finger 
ran  into  the  hole  made  by  the  bullet,  and  he  gave  a  little 
laugh  of  modest  triumph.  Minutes  passed  as  they 
studied,  felt,  and  admired  the  skin,  the  hunter  proud  of 
his  son,  the  son  alive  with  a  primitive  passion,  which 
inflicts  suffering  to  get  the  beautiful  thing.  Perhaps  the 
tenderness  as  well  as  the  wild  passion  of  the  animal  gets 
into  the  hunter's  blood,  and  tips  his  fingers  at  times  with 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN     105 

an  exquisite  kindness — as  one  has  noted  in  a  lion  fond- 
ling her  young,  or  in  tigers  as  they  sport  upon  the  sands 
of  the  desert.  This  boy  had  seen  his  father  shoot  a 
splendid  moose,  and  as  it  lay  dying,  drop  down  and  kiss 
it  in  the  neck  for  sheer  love  of  its  handsomeness.  Death 
is  no  insult.  It  is  the  law  of  the  primitive  world — war, 
and  love  in  war. 

They  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  not  speaking,  each 
busy  in  his  own  way :  the  boy  full  of  imaginings,  strange, 
half -heathen,  half -angelic  feelings;  the  man  roaming  in 
that  savage,  romantic,  superstitious  atmosphere  which 
belongs  to  the  north,  and  to  the  north  alone.  At  last 
the  boy  lay  back  on  the  pillow,  his  finger  still  in  the 
bullet-hole  of  the  pelt.  His  eyes  closed,  and  he  seemed 
about  to  fall  asleep,  but  presently  looked  up  and  whis- 
pered: "I  haven't  said  my  prayers,  have  I?" 

The  father  shook  his  head  in  a  sort  of  rude  confu- 
sion. 

"I  can  pray  out  loud  if  I  want  to,  can't  I?" 

"Of  course,  Dominique."    The  man  shrank  a  little. 

"I  forget  a  good  many  times,  but  I  know  one  all  right, 
for  I  said  it  when  the  bird  was  singing.  It  isn't  one  out 
of  the  book  Father  Corraine  sent  mother  by  Pretty 
Pierre;  it's  one  she  taught  me  out  of  her  own  head. 
P'r'aps  I'd  better  say  it." 

"PYaps,  if  you  want  to."    The  voice  was  husky. 

The  boy  began: 

"0  bon  Je"su,  who  died  to  save  us  from  our  sins,  and 
to  lead  us  to  Thy  country,  where  there  is  no  cold,  nor 
hunger,  nor  thirst,  and  where  no  one  is  afraid,  listen  to 
Thy  child.  .  .  .  When  the  great  winds  and  rains  come 
down  from  the  hills,  do  not  let  the  floods  drown  us,  nor 
the  woods  cover  us,  nor  the  snow-slide  bury  us;  and 
do  not  let  the  prairie-fires  burn  us.  Keep  wild  beasts 


106  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

from  killing  us  in  our  sleep,  and  give  us  good  hearts 
that  we  may  not  kill  them  in  anger." 

His  finger  twisted  involuntarily  into  the  bullet-hole 
hi  the  pelt,  and  he  paused  a  moment. 

"Keep  us  from  getting  lost,  0  gracious  Saviour." 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  his  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he 
said: 

"Do  you  think  mother's  lost,  father?" 

A  heavy  broken  breath  came  from  the  father,  and  he 
replied  haltingly:  "Mebbe,  mebbe  so." 

Dominique's  eyes  closed  again.  ' '  I'll  make  up  some," 
he  said  slowly. — "And  if  mother's  lost,  bring  her  back 
again  to  us,  for  everything's  going  wrong." 

Again  he  paused,  then  went  on  with  the  prayer  as  it 
had  been  taught  him. 

"Teach  us  to  hear  Thee  whenever  Thou  callest,  and 
to  see  Thee  when  Thou  visitest  us,  and  let  the  blessed 
Mary  and  all  the  saints  speak  often  to  Thee  for  us.  0 
Christ,  hear  us.  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us.  Christ 
have  mercy  upon  us.  Amen." 

Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  he  lay  back,  and  said: 
"I'll  go  to  sleep  now,  I  guess." 

The  man  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  at  the  pale,  shin- 
ing face,  at  the  blue  veins  showing  painfully  dark  on  the 
temples  and  forehead,  at  the  firm  little  white  hand, 
which  was  as  brown  as  a  butternut  a  few  weeks  before. 
The  longer  he  sat,  the  deeper  did  his  misery  sink  into 
his  soul.  His  wife  had  gone,  he  knew  not  where,  his 
child  was  wasting  to  death,  and  he  had  for  his  sorrows 
no  inner  consolation.  He  had  ever  had  that  touch  of 
mystical  imagination  inseparable  from  the  far  north, 
yet  he  had  none  of  that  religious  belief  which  swallowed 
up  natural  awe  and  turned  it  to  the  refining  of  life,  and 
to  the  advantage  of  a  man's  soul.  Now  it  was  forced 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN    107 

in  upon  him  that  his  child  was  wiser  than  himself,  wiser 
and  safer.  His  life  had  been  spent  in  the  wastes,  with 
rough  deeds  and  rugged  habits,  and  a  youth  of  hardship, 
danger,  and  almost  savage  endurance,  had  given  him  a 
half-barbarian  temperament,  which  could  strike  an 
angry  blow  at  one  moment  and  fondle  to  death  at  the 
next. 

When  he  married  sweet  Lucette  Barbond  his  religion 
reached  little  farther  than  a  belief  in  the  Scarlet  Hunter 
of  the  Kimash  Hills  and  those  voices  that  could  be 
heard  calling  in  the  night,  till  their  tune  of  sleep  be  past, 
and  they  should  rise  and  reconquer  the  north. 

Not  even  Father  Corraine,  whose  ways  were  like 
those  of  his  Master,  could  ever  bring  him  to  a  more 
definite  faith.  His  wife  had  at  first  striven  with  him, 
mourning  yet  loving.  Sometimes  the  savage  in  him 
had  broken  out  over  the  little  creature,  merely  because 
barbaric  tyranny  was  in  him — torture  followed  by  the 
passionate  kiss.  But  how  was  she  philosopher  enough 
to  understand  the  cause? 

When  she  fled  from  their  hut  one  bitter  day,  as  he 
roared  some  wild  words  at  her,  it  was  because  her  nerves 
had  all  been  shaken  from  threatened  death  by  wild 
beasts  (of  which  he  did  not  know),  and  his  violence 
drove  her  mad.  She  had  run  out  of  the  house,  and  on, 
and  on,  and  on — and  she  had  never  come  back.  That 
was  weeks  ago,  and  there  had  been  no  word  nor  sign  of 
her  since.  The  man  was  now  busy  with  it  all,  in  a  slow, 
cumbrous  way.  A  nature  more  to  be  touched  by  things 
seen  than  by  things  told,  his  mind  was  being  awakened 
in  a  massive  kind  of  fashion.  He  was  viewing  this  crisis 
of  his  life  as  one  sees  a  human  face  in  the  wide  searching 
light  of  a  great  fire.  He  was  restless,  but  he  held  him- 
self still  by  a  strong  effort,  not  wishing  to  disturb  the 


108  A  ROMANY  OF  THE   SNOWS 

sleeper.  His  eyes  seemed  to  retreat  farther  and  farther 
back  under  his  shaggy  brows. 

The  great  logs  hi  the  chimney  burned  brilliantly,  and 
a  brass  crucifix  over  the  child's  head  now  and  again 
reflected  soft  little  flashes  of  light.  This  caught  the 
hunter's  eye.  Presently  there  grew  up  in  him  a  vague 
kind  of  hope  that,  somehow,  this  symbol  would  bring 
him  luck — that  was  the  way  he  put  it  to  himself.  He 
had  felt  this — and  something  more — when  Dominique 
prayed.  Somehow,  Dominique's  prayer  was  the  only 
one  he  had  ever  heard  that  had  gone  home  to  him,  had 
opened  up  the  big  sluices  of  his  nature,  and  let  the  light 
of  God  flood  in.  No,  there  was  another :  the  one  Lucette 
made  on  the  day  that  they  were  married,  when  a  won- 
derful timid  reverence  played  through  his  hungry  love 
for  her. 

Hours  passed.  All  at  once,  without  any  other  motion 
or  gesture,  the  boy's  eyes  opened  wide  with  a  strange, 
intense  look. 

"  Father,"  he  said  slowly,  and  in  a  kind  of  dream, 
"when  you  hear  a  sweet  horn  blow  at  night,  is  it  the 
Scarlet  Hunter  calling?" 

"P'r'aps.  Why,  Dominique?"  He  made  up  his 
mind  to  humour  the  boy,  though  it  gave  him  strange 
aching  forebodings.  He  had  seen  grown  men  and  wo- 
men with  these  fancies — and  they  had  died. 

"I  heard  one  blowing  just  now,  and  the  sounds 
seemed  to  wave  over  my  head.  Perhaps  he's  calling 
someone  that's  lost." 

"Mebbe." 

"And  I  heard  a  voice  singing — it  wasn't  a  bird  to- 
night." 

"There  was  no  voice,  Dominique." 

uYes,  yes."    There  was  something  fine  in  the  grave, 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN    109 

courteous  certainty  of  the  lad.  "I  waked  and  you  were 
sitting  there  thinking,  and  I  shut  my  eyes  again,  and  I 
heard  the  voice.  I  remember  the  tune  and  the  words." 

"What  were  the  words?"  In  spite  of  himself  the 
hunter  felt  awed. 

"I've  heard  mother  sing  them,  or  something  most  like 
them: 

"  Why  does  the  fire  no  longer  burn? 

(I  am  so  lonely.) 
Why  does  the  tent-door  swing  outward? 

(I  have  no  home.) 
Oh,  let  me  breathe  hard  in  your  face! 

(I  am  so  lonely.) 
Oh,  why  do  you  shut  your  eyes  to  me? 

(I  have  no  home.) " 

The  boy  paused. 

"Was  that  all,  Dominique?" 

"No,  not  all." 

"Let  us  make  friends  with  the  stars; 

(I  am  so  lonely.) 
Give  me  your  hand,  I  will  hold  it. 

(I  have  no  home.) 
Let  us  go  hunting  together. 

(I  am  so  lonely.) 
We  will  sleep  at  God's  camp  to-night. 

(I  have  no  home.) " 

Dominique  did  not  sing,  but  recited  the  words  with 
a  sort  of  chanting  inflection. 

"What  does  it  mean  when  you  hear  a  voice  like  that, 
father?" 

"I  don't  know.   Who  told — your  mother — the  song ? " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  il  suppose  she  just  made  them 
up — she  and  God.  .  .  .  There!  There  it  is  again? 
Don't  you  hear  it — don't  you  hear  it,  daddy?" 


110  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"No,  Dominique,  it's  only  the  kettle  singing." 
/"A  kettle  isn't  a  voice.     Daddy—        He  paused  a 
little,  then  went  on,  hesitatingly — "I  saw  a  white  swan 
fly  through  the  door  over  your  shoulder,  when  you  came 
in  to-night." 

"No,  no,  Dominique;  it  was  a  flurry  of  snow  blowing 
over  my  shoulder." 

"But  it  looked  at  me  with  two  shining  eyes." 

"That  was  two  stars  shining  through  the  door,  my 
son." 

"How  could  there  be  snow  flying  and  stars  shining 
too,  father?" 

"It  was  just  drift-snow  on  a  light  wind,  but  the  stars 
were  shining  above,  Dominique." 

The  man's  voice  was  anxious  and  unconvincing,  his 
eyes  had  a  hungry,  hunted  look.  The  legend  of  the 
White  Swan  had  to  do  with  the  passing  of  a  human  soul. 
The  swan  had  come  in — would  it  go  out  alone?  He 
touched  the  boy's  hand — it  was  hot  with  fever;  he  felt 
the  pulse — it  ran  high;  he  watched  the  face — it  had  a 
glowing  light.  Something  stirred  within  him,  and  passed 
like  a  wave  to  the  farthest  courses  of  his  being.  Through 
his  misery  he  had  touched  the  garment  of  the  Master 
of  Souls.  As  though  a  voice  said  to  him  there,  "Some- 
one hath  touched  me,"  he  got  to  his  feet,  and,  with  a 
sudden  blind  humility,  lit  two  candles,  placed  them  on  a 
shelf  in  a  corner  before  a  porcelain  figure  of  the  Virgin, 
as  he  had  seen  his  wife  do.  Then  he  picked  a  small  hand- 
ful of  fresh  spruce  twigs  from  a  branch  over  the  chimney, 
and  laid  them  beside  the  candles.  After  a  short  pause 
he  came  slowly  to  the  head  of  the  boy's  bed.  Very  sol- 
emnly he  touched  the  foot  of  the  Christ  on  the  cross 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  and  brought  them  to  his 
lips  with  an  indescribable  reverence.  After  a  moment, 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN    111 

standing  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  crucified 
figure,  he  said,  in  a  shaking  voice: 

"Pardon,  bon  Jesu !  Sauvez  mon  enfant !  Ne  me 
laissez  pas  seul !" 

The  boy  looked  up  with  eyes  again  grown  unnaturally 
heavy,  and  said: 

"Amen!  .  .  .  Bon  Jesu!  .  .  .  Encore!  Encore,  mon 
pere!" 

The  boy  slept.  The  father  stood  still  by  the  bed  for 
a  time,  but  at  last  slowly  turned  and  went  toward  the 
fire. 

Outside,  two  figures  were  approaching  the  hut — a 
man  and  a  woman;  yet  at  first  glance  the  man  might 
easily  have  been  taken  for  a  woman,  because  of  the  long 
black  robe  which  he  wore,  and  because  his  hah*  fell  loose 
on  his  shoulders  and  his  face  was  clean-shaven. 

"Have  patience,  my  daughter,"  said  the  man.  "Do 
not  enter  till  I  call  you.  But  stand  close  to  the  door,  if 
you  will,  and  hear  all." 

So  saying  he  raised  his  hand  as  in  a  kind  of  benedic- 
tion, passed  to  the  door,  and  after  tapping  very  softly, 
opened  it,  entered,  and  closed  it  behind  him — not  so 
quickly,  however,  but  that  the  woman  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  father  and  the  boy.  In  her  eyes  there  was  the 
divine  look  of  motherhood. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house!"  said  the  man  gently  as  he 
stepped  forward  from  the  door. 

The  father,  startled,  turned  shrinkingly  on  him,  as  if 
he  had  seen  a  spirit. 

"M'sieu'  le  cure"!"  he  said  in  French,  with  an  accent 
much  poorer  than  that  of  the  priest,  or  even  of  his  own 
son.  He  had  learned  French  from  his  wife;  he  himself 
was  English. 

The  priest's  quick  eye  had  taken  in  the  lighted  candles 


112  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

at  the  little  shrine,  even  as  he  saw  the  painfully  changed 
aspect  of  the  man. 

"The  wife  and  child,  Bagot?"  he  asked,  looking 
round.  "Ah,  the  boy!"  he  added,  and  going  toward 
the  bed,  continued,  presently,  in  a  low  voice:  "Dom- 
inique is  ill?" 

Bagot  nodded,  and  then  answered:  "A  wild-cat  and 
then  fever,  Father  Corraine." 

The  priest  felt  the  boy's  pulse  softly,  then  with  a  close 
personal  look  he  spoke  hardly  above  his  breath,  yet 
distinctly  too : 

"Your  wife,  Bagot?" 

"She  is  not  here,  m'sieu'."  The  voice  was  low  and 
gloomy. 

"Where  is  she,  Bagot?" 

"I  do  not  know,  m'sieu'." 

"When  did  you  see  her  last?" 

"Four  weeks  ago,  m'sieu'." 

"That  was  September,  this  is  October — winter.  On 
the  ranches  they  let  their  cattle  loose  upon  the  plains 
in  winter,  knowing  not  where  they  go,  yet  looking  for 
them  to  return  in  the  spring.  But  a  woman — a  woman 
and  a  wife — is  different.  .  .  .  Bagot,  you  have  been  a 
rough,  hard  man,  and  you  have  been  a  stranger  to 
your  God,  but  I  thought  you  loved  your  wife  and 
child!" 

The  hunter's  hands  clenched,  and  a  wicked  light 
flashed  up  into  his  eyes;  but  the  calm,  benignant  gaze 
of  the  other  cooled  the  tempest  in  his  veins.  The 
priest  sat  down  on  the  couch  where  the  child  lay,  and 
took  the  fevered  hand  in  his  very  softly. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  Bagot,"  he  said;  "just  there 
where  you  are,  and  tell  me  what  your  trouble  is,  and 
why  your  wife  is  not  here.  .  .  .  Say  all  honestly — by 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN    113 

the  name  of  the  Christ!"  he  added,  lifting  up  a  large 
iron  crucifix  that  hung  on  his  breast. 

Bagot  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  the  fireplace,  the 
light  playing  on  his  bronzed,  powerful  face,  his  eyes  shin- 
ing beneath  his  heavy  brows  like  two  coals.  After  a 
moment  he  began: 

"I  don't  know  how  it  started.  I'd  lost  a  lot  of  pelts 
— stolen  they  were,  down  on  the  Child  o'  Sin  River. 
Well,  she  was  hasty  and  nervous,  like  as  not — she  always 
was  brisker  and  more  sudden  than  I  am.  I — I  laid  my 
powder-horn  and  whisky-flask — up  there!" 

He  pointed  to  the  little  shrine  of  the  Virgin,  where 
now  his  candles  were  burning.  The  priest's  grave  eyes 
did  not  change  expression  at  all,  but  looked  out  wisely, 
as  though  he  understood  everything  before  it  was 
told. 

Bagot  continued:  "I  didn't  notice  it,  but  she  had 
put  some  flowers  there.  She  said  something  with  an 
edge,  her  face  all  snapping  angry,  threw  the  things  down, 
and  called  me  a  heathen  and  a  wicked  heretic — and  I 
don't  say  now  but  she'd  a  right  to  do  it.  But  I  let  out 
then,  for  them  stolen  pelts  were  rasping  me  on  the  raw. 
I  said  something  pretty  rough,  and  made  as  if  I  was 
goin'  to  break  her  in  two — just  fetched  up  my  hands, 
and  went  like  this!—  With  a  singular  simplicity  he 
made  a  wild  gesture  with  his  hands,  and  an  animal-like 
snarl  came  from  his  throat.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
priest  with  the  honest  intensity  of  a  boy. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  you  did — what  was  it  you  said 
which  was  'pretty  rough'?" 

There  was  a  slight  hesitation,  then  came  the  reply: 

"I  said  there  was  enough  powder  spilt  on  the  floor 
to  kill  all  the  priests  in  heaven." 

A  fire  suddenly  shot  up  into  Father  Corraine's  face, 


114          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

and  his  lips  tightened  for  an  instant,  but  presently  he 
was  as  before,  and  he  said : 

"How  that  will  face  you  one  day,  Bagot!  Go  on. 
What  else?" 

Sweat  began  to  break  out  on  Bagot's  face,  and  he 
spoke  as  though  he  were  carrying  a  heavy  weight  on  his 
shoulders,  low  and  brokenly. 

"Then  I  said,  'And  if  virgins  has  it  so  fine,  why  didn't 
you  stay  one? ' ' 

"Blasphemer!"  said  the  priest  in  a  stern,  reproachful 
voice,  his  face  turning  a  little  pale,  and  he  brought  the 
crucifix  to  his  lips.  "To  the  mother  of  your  child — 
shame !  What  more? ' ' 

"She  threw  up  her  hands  to  her  ears  with  a  wild  cry, 
ran  out  of  the  house,  down  the  hills,  and  away.  I  went 
to  the  door  and  watched  her  as  long  as  I  could  see  her, 
and  waited  for  her  to  come  back — but  she  never  did. 
I've  hunted  and  hunted,  but  I  can't  find  her."  Then, 
with  a  sudden  thought,  "Do  you  know  anything  of  her, 


m'sieu'?" 


The  priest  appeared  not  to  hear  the  question.  Turn- 
ing for  a  moment  toward  the  boy  who  now  was  in  a  deep 
sleep,  he  looked  at  him  intently.  Presently  he  spoke. 

"Ever  since  I  married  you  and  Lucette  Barbond,  you 
have  stood  in  the  way  of  her  duty,  Bagot.  How  well 
I  remember  that  first  day  when  you  knelt  before  me! 
Was  ever  so  sweet  and  good  a  girl — with  her  golden  eyes 
and  the  look  of  summer  in  her  face,  and  her  heart  all 
pure!  Nothing  had  spoiled  her — you  cannot  spoil  such 
women — God  is  in  their  hearts.  But  you,  what  have 
you  cared?  One  day  you  would  fondle  her,  and  the 
next  you  were  a  savage — and  she,  so  gentle,  so  gentle  all 
the  time.  Then,  for  her  religion  and  the  faith  of  her 
child — she  has  fought  for  it,  prayed  for  it,  suffered  for 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN    115 

it.  You  thought  you  had  no  need,  for  you  had  so  much 
happiness,  which  you  did  not  deserve — that  was  it. 
But  she:  with  all  a  woman  suffers,  how  can  she  bear 
life — and  man — without  God?  No,  it  is  not  possible. 
And  you  thought  you  and  your  few  superstitions  were 
enough  for  her. — Ah,  poor  fool!  She  should  worship 
you!  So  selfish,  so  small,  for  a  man  who  knows  in  his 
heart  how  great  God  is. — You  did  not  love  her." 

"By  the  Heaven  above,  yes!"  said  Bagot,  half  start- 
ing to  his  feet. 

"Ah,  'by  the  Heaven  above,'  no!  nor  the  child.  For 
true  love  is  unselfish  and  patient,  and  where  it  is  the 
stronger,  it  cares  for  the  weaker;  but  it  was  your  wife 
who  was  unselfish,  patient,  and  cared  for  you.  Every 
time  she  said  an  ave  she  thought  of  you,  and  her  every 
thanks  to  the  good  God  had  you  therein.  They  know 
you  well  in  heaven,  Bagot — through  your  wife.  Did 
you  ever  pray — ever  since  I  married  you  to  her?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"An  hour  or  so  ago." 

Once  again  the  priest's  eyes  glanced  towards  the 
lighted  candles. 

Presently  he  said:  "You  asked  me  if  I  had  heard 
anything  of  your  wife.  Listen,  and  be  patient  while  you 
listen.  .  .  .  Three  weeks  ago  I  was  camping  on  the 
Sundust  Plains,  over  against  the  Young  Sky  River.  In 
the  morning,  as  I  was  lighting  a  fire  outside  my  tent,  my 
young  Cree  Indian  with  me,  I  saw  coming  over  the  crest 
of  a  land-wave,  from  the  very  lips  of  the  sunrise,  as  it 
were,  a  band  of  Indians.  I  could  not  quite  make  them 
out.  I  hoisted  my  little  flag  on  the  tent,  and  they  hur- 
ried on  to  me.  I  did  not  know  the  tribe — they  had 
come  from  near  Hudson's  Bay.  They  spoke  Chinook, 


116  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

and  I  could  understand  them.    Well,  as  they  came  near 
I  saw  that  they  had  a  woman  with  them." 

Bagot  leaned  forward,  his  body  strained,  every  muscle 
tense.  "A  woman?"  he  said,  as  if  breathing  gave  him 
sorrow — ' '  my  wife  ? ' ' 

"  Your  wife." 

" Quick!  Quick!  Go  on — oh,  go  on,  m'sieu' — good 
father." 

"She  fell  at  my  feet,  begging  me  to  save  her.  .  .  . 
I  waved  her  off." 

The  sweat  dropped  from  Bagot's  forehead,  a  low 
growl  broke  from  him,  and  he  made  such  a  motion  as  a 
lion  might  make  at  its  prey. 

"You  wouldn't — wouldn't  save  her — you  coward!" 
He  ground  the  words  out. 

The  priest  raised  his  palm  against  the  other's  violence. 
"Hush!  .  .  .  She  drew  away,  saying  that  God  and  man 
had  deserted  her.  .  .  .  We  had  breakfast,  the  chief  and 
I.  Afterwards,  when  the  chief  had  eaten  much  and  was 
in  good  humour,  I  asked  him  where  he  had  got  the 
woman.  He  said  that  he  had  found  her  on  the  plains — 
she  had  lost  her  way.  I  told  him  then  that  I  wanted  to 
buy  her.  He  said  to  me,  'What  does  a  priest  want  of 
a  woman? '  I  said  that  I  wished  to  give  her  back  to  her 
husband.  He  said  that  he  had  found  her,  and  she  was 
his,  and  that  he  would  marry  her  when  they  reached  the 
great  camp  of  the  tribe.  I  was  patient.  It  would  not 
do  to  make  him  angry.  I  wrote  down  on  a  piece  of  bark 
the  things  that  I  would  give  him  for  her:  an  order  on 
the  Company  at  Fort  o'  Sin  for  shot,  blankets,  and 
beads.  He  said  no." 

The  priest  paused.  Bagot's  face  was  all  swimming 
with  sweat,  his  body  was  rigid,  but  the  veins  of  his  neck 
knotted  and  twisted. 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN    117 

"For  the  love  of  God,  go  on!"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"  Yes,  'for  the  love  of  God.'  I  have  no  money,  I  am 
poor,  but  the  Company  will  always  honour  my  orders, 
for  I  pay  sometimes,  by  the  help  of  Christ.  Bien,  I 
added  some  things  to  the  list :  a  saddle,  a  rifle,  and  some 
flannel.  But  no,  he  would  not.  Once  more  I  put  many 
things  down.  It  was  a  big  bill — it  would  keep  me  poor 
for  five  years. — To  save  your  wife,  John  Bagot,  you  who 
drove  her  from  your  door,  blaspheming,  and  railing  at 
such  as  I.  ...  I  offered  the  things,  and  told  him  that 
was  all  that  I  could  give.  After  a  little  he  shook  his 
head,  and  said  that  he  must  have  the  woman  for  his 
wife.  I  did  not  know  what  to  add.  I  said — 'She  is 
white,  and  the  white  people  will  never  rest  till  they  have 
killed  you  all,  if  you  do  this  thing.  The  Company  will 
track  you  down.'  Then  he  said, '  The  whites  must  catch 
me  and  fight  me  before  they  kill  me.'  .  .  .  What  was 
there  to  do?' 

Bagot  came  near  to  the  priest,  bending  over  him  sav- 
agely. 

"You  let  her  stay  with  them — you  with  hands  like 
a  man!" 

"Hush!"  was  the  calm,  reproving  answer.  "I  was 
one  man,  they  were  twenty." 

"Where  was  your  God  to  help  you,  then?" 

"Her  God  and  mine  was  with  me." 

Bagot's  eyes  blazed.  "Why  didn't  you  offer  rum — 
rum?  They'd  have  done  it  for  that — one — five — ten 
kegs  of  rum!" 

He  swayed  to  and  fro  in  his  excitement,  yet  then* 
voices  hardly  rose  above  a  hoarse  whisper  all  the  time. 

"You  forget,"  answered  the  priest,  "that  it  is  against 
the  law,  and  that  as  a  priest  of  my  order,  I  am  vowed 
to  give  no  rum  to  an  Indian." 


118  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"A  vow?  A  vow?  Name  of  God!  what  is  a  vow  be- 
side a  woman — my  wife?" 

His  misery  and  his  rage  were  pitiful  to  see. 

"Perjure  my  soul?  Offer  rum?  Break  my  vow  in 
the  face  of  the  enemies  of  God's  Church?  What  have 
you  done  for  me  that  I  should  do  this  for  you,  John 
Bagot?" 

"Coward!"  was  the  man's  despairing  cry,  with  a 
sudden  threatening  movement.  "  Christ  Himself  would 
have  broke  a  vow  to  save  her." 

The  grave,  kind  eyes  of  the  priest  met  the  other's 
fierce  gaze,  and  quieted  the  wild  storm  that  was  about 
to  break. 

"Who  am  I  that  I  should  teach  my  Master?"  he  said 
solemnly.  "What  would  you  give  Christ,  Bagot,  if  He 
had  saved  her  to  you?" 

The  man  shook  with  grief,  and  tears  rushed  from  his 
eyes,  so  suddenly  and  fully  had  a  new  emotion  passed 
through  him. 

"Give — give?"  he  cried;  "I  would  give  twenty  years 
of  my  life!" 

The  figure  of  the  priest  stretched  up  with  a  gentle 
grandeur.  Holding  out  the  iron  crucifix,  he  said:  "On 
your  knees  and  swear  it,  John  Bagot." 

There  was  something  inspiring,  commanding,  in  the 
voice  and  manner,  and  Bagot,  with  a  new  hope  rushing 
through  his  veins,  knelt  and  repeated  his  words. 

The  priest  turned  to  the  door,  and  called,  "Madame 
Lucette!" 

The  boy,  hearing,  waked,  and  sat  up  in  bed  suddenly. 

"Mother!  mother!"  he  cried,  as  the  door  flew  open. 

The  mother  came  to  her  husband's  arms,  laughing 
and  weeping,  and  an  instant  afterwards  was  pouring 
out  her  love  and  anxiety  over  her  child. 


THE  GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN    119 

Father  Corraine  now  faced  the  man,  and  with  a  soft 
exaltation  of  voice  and  manner,  said: 

"  John  Bagot,  in  the  name  of  Christ,  I.demand  twenty 
years  of  your  life — of  love  and  obedience  of  God.  I 
broke  my  vow,  I  perjured  my  soul,  I  bought  your  wife 
with  ten  kegs  of  rum!" 

The  tall  hunter  dropped  again  to  his  knees,  and  caught 
the  priest's  hand  to  kiss  it. 

"No,  no — this!"  the  priest  said,  and  laid  his  iron 
crucifix  against  the  other's  lips. 

Dominique's  voice  came  clearly  through  the  room : 

"Mother,  I  saw  the  white  swan  fly  away  through  the 
door  when  you  came  in." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "there  was  no  white 
swan."  But  she  clasped  the  boy  to  her  breast  protect- 
ingly,  and  whispered  an  ave. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house,"  said  the  voice  of  the  priest. 

And  there  was  peace:  for  the  child  lived,  and  the 
man  has  loved,  and  has  kept  his  vow,  even  unto  this 
day. 

For  the  visions  of  the  boy,  who  can  know  the  divers 
ways  in  which  God  speaks  to  the  children  of  men? 


AT  BAMBER'S  BOOM 


His  trouble  came  upon  him  when  he  was  old.  To  the 
hour  of  its  coming  he  had  been  of  shrewd  and  humour- 
ous disposition.  He  had  married  late  in  life,  and  his 
wife  had  died,  leaving  him  one  child — a  girl.  She  grew 
to  womanhood,  bringing  him  daily  joy.  She  was  be- 
loved in  the  settlement;  and  there  was  no  one  at  Bam- 
ber's  Boom,  in  the  valley  of  the  Madawaska,  but  was 
startled  and  sorry  when  it  turned  out  that  Dugard,  the 
river-boss,  was  married.  He  floated  away  down  the 
river,  with  his  rafts  and  drives  of  logs,  leaving  the  girl 
sick  and  shamed.  They  knew  she  was  sick  at  heart, 
because  she  grew  pale  and  silent;  they  did  not  know  for 
some  months  how  shamed  she  was.  Then  it  was  that 
Mrs.  Lauder,  the  sister  of  the  Roman  Catholic  mis- 
sionary, Father  Halen,  being  a  woman  of  notable  char- 
acter and  kindness,  visited  her  and  begged  her  to  tell 
all. 

Though  the  girl — Nora — was  a  Protestant,  Mrs. 
Lauder  did  this:  but  it  brought  sore  grief  to  her.  At 
first  she  could  hardly  bear  to  look  at  the  girl's  face,  it 
was  so  hopeless,  so  numb  to  the  world:  it  had  the  in- 
difference of  despair.  Rumour  now  became  hateful 
fact.  When  the  old  man  was  told,  he  gave  one  great 
cry,  then  sat  down,  his  hands  pressed  hard  between  his 
knees,  his  body  trembling,  his  eyes  staring  before  him. 

It  was  Father  Halen  who  told  him.  He  did  it  as  man 
to  man,  and  not  as  a  priest,  having  travelled  fifty  miles 

120 


AT  BAMBER'S  BOOM  121 

for  the  purpose.  "George  Magor,"  said  he,  "it's  bad, 
I  know,  but  bear  it — with  the  help  of  God.  And  be 
kind  to  the  girl." 

The  old  man  answered  nothing.  "My  friend,"  the 
priest  continued,  "I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  for  telling 
you.  I  thought  'twould  be  better  from  me,  than  to  have 
it  thrown  at  you  in  the  settlement.  We've  been  friends 
one  way  and  another,  and  my  heart  aches  for  you,  and 
my  prayers  go  with  you." 

The  old  man  raised  his  sunken  eyes,  all  their  keen 
humour  gone,  and  spoke  as  though  each  word  were  dug 
from  his  heart.  "Say  no  more,  Father  Halen."  Then 
he  reached  out,  caught  the  priest's  hand  in  his  gnarled 
fingers,  and  wrung  it. 

The  father  never  spoke  a  harsh  word  to  the  girl. 
Otherwise  he  seemed  to  harden  into  stone.  When  the 
Protestant  missionary  came,  he  would  not  see  him.  The 
child  was  born  before  the  river-drivers  came  along  again 
the  next  year  with  their  rafts  and  logs.  There  was  a 
feeling  abroad  that  it  would  be  ill  for  Dugard  if  he 
chanced  to  camp  at  Bamber's  Boom.  The  look  of  the 
old  man's  face  was  ominous,  and  he  was  known  to  have 
an  iron  will. 

Dugard  was  a  handsome  man,  half  French,  half 
Scotch,  swarthy  and  admirably  made.  He  was  proud  of 
his  strength,  and  showily  fearless  in  danger.  For  there 
were  dangerous  hours  to  the  river  life:  when,  for  in- 
stance, a  mass  of  logs  became  jammed  at  a  rapids,  and 
must  be  loosened;  or  a  crib  struck  into  the  wrong 
channel,  or,  failing  to  enter  a  slide  straight,  came  at  a 
nasty  angle  to  it,  its  timbers  wrenched  and  tore  apart, 
and  its  crew,  with  their  great  oars,  were  plumped  into 
the  busy  current.  He  had  been  known  to  stand  singly 
in  some  perilous  spot  when  one  log,  the  key  to  the  jam, 


122  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

must  be  shifted  to  set  free  the  great  tumbled  pile.  He 
did  everything  with  a  dash.  The  handspike  was  waved 
and  thrust  into  the  best  leverage,  the  long  robust  cry, 
"O-hee-hee-hoi!"  rolled  over  the  waters,  there  was  a 
devil's  jumble  of  logs,  and  he  played  a  desperate  game 
with  them,  tossing  here,  leaping  there,  balancing  else- 
where, till,  reaching  the  smooth  rush  of  logs  in  the 
current,  he  ran  across  them  to  the  shore  as  they  spun 
beneath  his  feet. 

His  gang  of  river-drivers,  with  their  big  drives  of 
logs,  came  sweeping  down  one  beautiful  day  of  early 
summer,  red-shirted,  shouting,  good-tempered.  It  was 
about  this  tune  that  Pierre  came  to  know  Magor. 

It  was  the  old  man's  duty  to  keep  the  booms  of  several 
great  lumbering  companies,  and  to  watch  the  logs  when 
the  river-drivers  were  engaged  elsewhere.  Occasionally 
he  took  a  place  with  the  men,  helping  to  make  cribs 
and  rafts.  Dugard  worked  for  one  lumber  company, 
Magor  for  others.  Many  in  the  settlement  showed 
Dugard  how  much  he  was  despised.  Some  warned  him 
that  Magor  had  said  he  would  break  him  into  pieces; 
it  seemed  possible  that  Dugard  might  have  a  bad  hour 
with  the  people  of  Bamber's  Boom.  Dugard,  though 
he  swelled  and  strutted,  showed  by  a  furtive  eye  and 
a  sinister  watchfulness  that  he  felt  himself  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  danger.  But  he  spoke  of  his  wickedness  lightly 
as,  "A  slip — a  little  accident,  mon  ami." 

Pierre  said  to  him  one  day:  "Bien,  Dugard,  you  are 
a  bold  man  to  come  here  again.  Or  is  it  that  you  think 
old  men  are  cowards?" 

Dugard,  blustering,  laid  his  hand  suddenly  upon  his 
case-knife. 

Pierre  laughed  softly,  contemptuously,  came  over, 
and  throwing  out  his  perfectly  formed  but  not  robust 


AT  BAMBER'S  BOOM  123 

chest  in  the  fashion  of  Dugard,  added:  "Ho,  ho,  mon- 
sieur the  butcher,  take  your  time  at  that.  There  is  too 
much  blood  in  your  carcass.  You  have  quarrels  plenty 
on  your  hands  without  this.  Come,  don't  be  a  fool  and 
a  scoundrel  too." 

Dugard  grinned  uneasily,  and  tried  to  turn  the  thing 
off  as  a  joke,  and  Pierre,  who  laughed  still  a  little 
more,  said:  "It  would  be  amusing  to  see  old  Magor  and 
Dugard  fight.  It  would  be — so  equal."  There  was  a 
keen  edge  to  Pierre's  tones,  but  Dugard  dared  not  re- 
sent it. 

One  day  Magor  and  Dugard  must  meet.  The  square- 
timber  of  the  two  companies  had  got  tangled  at  a  cer- 
tain point,  and  gangs  from  both  must  set  them  loose. 
They  were  camped  some  distance  from  each  other. 
There  was  rivalry  between  them,  and  it  was  hinted  that 
if  any  trouble  came  from  the  meeting  of  Magor  and 
Dugard  the  gangs  would  pay  off  old  scores  with  each 
other.  Pierre  wished  to  prevent  this.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  two  men  should  stand  alone  in  the  affair. 
He  said  as  much  here  and  there  to  members  of  both 
camps,  for  he  was  free  of  both:  a  tribute  to  his  genius  at 
poker. 

The  girl,  Nora,  was  apprehensive — for  her  father; 
she  hated  the  other  man  now.  Pierre  was  courteous  to 
her,  scrupulous  in  word  and  look,  and  fond  of  her  child. 
He  had  always  shown  a  gentleness  to  children,  which 
seemed  little  compatible  with  his  character;  but  for 
this  young  outlaw  in  the  world  he  had  something  more. 
He  even  laboured  carefully  to  turn  the  girl's  father  in 
its  favour ;  but  as  yet  to  little  purpose.  He  was  thought- 
ful of  the  girl  too.  He  only  went  to  the  house  when  he 
knew  her  father  was  present,  or  when  she  was  away. 
Once  while  he  was  there,  Father  Halen  and  his  sister, 


124          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Mrs.  Lauder,  came.  They  found  Pierre  with  the  child, 
rocking  the  cradle,  and  humming  as  he  did  so  an  old 
song  of  the  coureurs  de  bois: 

"  Out  of  the  hills  comes  a  little  white  deer, — 

Poor  little  vaurien,  o,  ci,  ci! 
Come  to  my  home,  to  my  home  down  here, 
Sister  and  brother  and  child  o'  me — 

Poor  little,  poor  little  vaurien!" 

Pierre  was  alone,  save  for  the  old  woman  who  had 
cared  for  the  home  since  Nora's  trouble  came.  The 
priest  was  anxious  lest  any  harm  should  come  from 
Dugard's  presence  at  Bamber's  Boom.  He  knew 
Pierre's  doubtful  reputation,  but  still  he  knew  he 
could  speak  freely  and  would  be  answered  honestly. 

"What  will  happen?"  he  abruptly  asked. 

"What  neither  you  nor  I  should  try  to  prevent, 
m'sieu',"  was  Pierre's  reply. 

"Magor  will  do  the  man  injury?" 

"What  would  you  have?  Put  the  matter  on  your  own 
hearthstone,  eh?  .  .  .  Pardon,  if  I  say  these  things 
bluntly."  Pierre  still  lightly  rocked  the  cradle  with 
one  foot. 

"But  vengeance  is  in  God's  hands." 

"M'sieu',"  said  the  half-breed,  "vengeance  also  is 
man's,  else  why  did  we  ten  men  from  Fort  Cypress 
track  down  the  Indians  who  murdered  your  brother, 
the  good  priest,  and  kill  them  one  by  one?" 

Father  Halen  caught  his  sister  as  she  swayed,  and 
helped  her  to  a  chair,  then  turned  a  sad  face  on  Pierre. 
"Were  you — were  you  one  of  that  ten?"  he  asked,  over- 
come; and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

The  two  river-driving  camps  joined  at  Mud  Cat 
Point,  where  was  the  crush  of  great  timber.  The  two 


AT  BAMBER'S  BOOM  125 

men  did  not  at  first  come  face  to  face,  but  it  was  noticed 
by  Pierre,  who  smoked  on  the  bank  while  the  others 
worked,  that  the  old  man  watched  his  enemy  closely. 
The  work  of  undoing  the  great  twist  of  logs  was  exciting, 
and  they  fell  on  each  other  with  a  great  sound  as  they 
were  pried  off,  and  went  sliding,  grinding,  into  the  water. 
At  one  spot  they  were  piled  together,  massive  and  high. 
These  were  left  to  the  last. 

It  was  here  that  the  two  met.  Old  Magor's  face  was 
quiet,  if  a  little  haggard,  and  his  eyes  looked  out  from 
under  his  shaggy  brows  piercingly.  Dugard's  manner 
was  swaggering,  and  he  swore  horribly  at  his  gang. 
Presently  he  stood  at  a  point  alone,  working  at  an  ob- 
stinate log.  He  was  at  the  foot  of  an  incline  of  timber, 
and  he  was  not  aware  that  Magor  had  suddenly  ap- 
peared at  the  top  of  that  incline.  He  heard  his  name 
called  out  sharply.  Swinging  round,  he  saw  Magor 
thrusting  a  handspike  under  a  huge  timber,  hanging  at 
the  top  of  the  incline.  He  was  standing  in  a  hollow,  a 
kind  of  trench.  He  was  shaken  with  fear,  for  he  saw 
the  old  man's  design.  He  gave  a  cry  and  made  as  if  to 
jump  out  of  the  way,  but  with  a  laugh  Magor  threw  his 
whole  weight  on  the  handspike,  the  great  timber  slid 
swiftly  down  and  crushed  Dugard  from  his  thighs  to 
his  feet,  breaking  his  legs  terribly.  The  old  man  called 
down  at  him:  "A  slip — a  little  accident,  mon  ami!" 
Then,  shouldering  his  handspike,  he  made  his  way 
through  the  silent  gangs  to  the  shore,  and  so  on  home- 
wards. 

Magor  had  done  what  he  wished.  Dugard  would  be 
a  cripple  for  life;  his  beauty  was  all  spoiled  and  broken: 
there  was  much  to  do  to  save  his  life. 


126  A  ROMANY  OF  THE   SNOWS 

II 

NORA  also  about  this  time  took  to  her  bed  with  fever. 
Again  and  again  Pierre  rode  thirty  miles  and  back  to 
get  ice  for  her  head.  All  were  kind  to  her  now.  The 
vengeance  upon  Dugard  seemed  to  have  wiped  out  much 
of  her  shame  in  the  eyes  of  Bamber's  Boom.  Such  is 
the  way  of  the  world.  He  that  has  the  last  blow  is  in 
the  eye  of  advantage.  When  Nora  began  to  recover, 
the  child  fell  ill  also.  In  the  sickness  of  the  child  the  old 
man  had  a  great  temptation — far  greater  than  that  con- 
cerning Dugard.  As  the  mother  grew  better  the  child 
became  much  worse.  One  night  the  doctor  came,  driv- 
ing over  from  another  settlement,  and  said  that  if  the 
child  got  sleep  till  morning  it  would  probably  live,  for 
the  crisis  had  come.  He  left  an  opiate  to  procure  the 
sleep,  the  same  that  had  been  given  to  the  mother.  If 
it  did  not  sleep,  it  would  die.  Pierre  was  present  at  this 
tune. 

All  through  the  child's  illness  the  old  man's  mind 
had  been  tossed  to  and  fro.  If  the  child  died,  the  living 
stigma  would  be  gone;  there  would  be  no  reminder  of 
his  daughter's  shame  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  They 
could  go  away  from  Bamber's  Boom,  and  begin  life 
again  somewhere.  But,  then,  there  was  the  child  itself 
which  had  crept  into  his  heart, — he  knew  not  how,— 
and  would  not  be  driven  out.  He  had  never,  till  it  was 
taken  ill,  even  touched  it,  nor  spoken  to  it.  To  destroy 
its  life! — Well,  would  it  not  be  better  for  the  child  to  go 
out  of  all  possible  shame,  into  peace,  the  peace  of  the 
grave? 

This  night  he  sat  down  beside  the  cradle,  holding 
the  bottle  of  medicine  and  a  spoon  in  his  hand.  The 
hot,  painful  face  of  the  child  fascinated  him.  He  looked 


AT  BAMBER'S  BOOM  127 

from  it  to  the  bottle,  and  back,  then  again  to  the  bottle. 
He  started,  and  the  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead. 
For  though  the  doctor  had  told  him  in  words  the  proper 
dose,  he  had  by  mistake  written  on  the  label  the  same 
dose  as  for  the  mother!  Here  was  the  responsibility 
shifted  in  any  case.  More  than  once  the  old  man  un- 
corked the  bottle,  and  once  he  dropped  out  the  opiate 
in  the  spoon  steadily;  but  the  child  opened  its  suffering 
eyes  at  him,  its  little  wasted  hand  wandered  over  the 
coverlet,  and  he  could  not  do  it  just  then.  But  again  the 
passion  for  its  destruction  came  on  him,  because  he 
heard  his  daughter  moaning  in  the  other  room.  He  said 
to  himself  that  she  would  be  happier  when  it  was  gone. 
But  as  he  stooped  over  the  cradle,  no  longer  hesitating, 
the  door  softly  opened,  and  Pierre  entered.  The  old 
man  shuddered,  and  drew  back  from  the  cradle.  Pierre 
saw  the  look  of  guilt  in  the  old  man's  face,  and  his  in- 
stinct told  him  what  was  happening.  He  took  the 
bottle  from  the  trembling  hand,  and  looked  at  the 
label. 

"What  is  the  proper  dose?"  he  asked,  seeing  that  a 
mistake  had  been  made  by  the  doctor. 

In  a  hoarse  whisper  Magor  told  him.  "It  may  be  too 
late,"  Pierre  added.  He  knelt  down,  with  light  fingers 
opened  the  child's  mouth,  and  poured  the  medicine  in 
slowly.  The  old  man  stood  for  a  tune  rigid,  looking  at 
them  both.  Then  he  came  round  to  the  other  side  of 
the  cradle,  and  seated  himself  beside  it,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  child's  face.  For  a  long  time  they  sat  there. 
At  last  the  old  man  said:  "Will  he  die,  Pierre?" 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  answered  Pierre  painfully.  "But 
we  shall  see."  Then  early  teaching  came  to  him, — 
never  to  be  entirely  obliterated, — and  he  added:  "Has 
the  child  been  baptised?" 


128          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "Will  you  do  it?" 
asked  Pierre  hesitatingly. 

"I  can't — I  can't,"  was  the  reply. 

Pierre  smiled  a  little  ironically,  as  if  at  himself,  got 
some  water  in  a  cup,  came  over,  and  said: 

" Remember,  I'm  a  Papist!" 

A  motion  of  the  hand  answered  him. 

He  dipped  his  fingers  in  the  water,  and  dropped  it 
ever  so  lightly  on  the  child's  forehead. 

"George  Magor," — it  was  the  old  man's  name, — "I 
baptise  thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son, 
and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen."  Then  he  drew  the 
sign  of  the  cross  on  the  infant's  forehead. 

Sitting  down,  he  watched  beside  the  child.  After 
a  little  he  heard  a  long  choking  sigh.  Looking  up,  he 
saw  tears  slowly  dropping  from  Magor's  eyes. 

And  to  this  day  the  child  and  the  mother  of  the  child 
are  dear  to  the  old  man's  heart. 


THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE 

IT  stood  on  a  wide  wall  between  two  small  bridges. 
These  were  approaches  to  the  big  covered  bridge  span- 
ning the  main  channel  of  the  Madawaska  River,  and 
when  swelled  by  the  spring  thaws  and  rains,  the  two 
flanking  channels  divided  at  the  foundations  of  the 
house,  and  rustled  away  through  the  narrow  paths  of 
the  small  bridges  to  the  rapids.  You  could  stand  at  any 
window  in  the  House  and  watch  the  ugly,  rushing  cur- 
rent, gorged  with  logs,  come  battering  at  the  wall,  jostle 
between  the  piers,  and  race  on  to  the  rocks  and  the  dam 
and  the  slide  beyond.  You  stepped  from  the  front  door 
upon  the  wall,  which  was  a  road  between  the  bridges, 
and  from  the  back  door  into  the  river  itself. 

The  House  had  once  been  a  tavern.  It  looked  a  way- 
farer, like  its  patrons  the  river-drivers,  with  whom  it 
was  most  popular.  You  felt  that  it  had  no  part  in  the 
career  of  the  village  on  either  side,  but  was  like  a  rock 
in  a  channel,  at  which  a  swimmer  caught  or  a  vagrant 
fish  loitered. 

Pierre  knew  the  place,  when,  of  a  night  in  the  spring- 
tune  or  early  summer,  throngs  of  river-drivers  and  their 
bosses  sauntered  at  its  doors,  or  hung  over  the  railing 
of  the  wall,  as  they  talked  and  smoked. 

The  glory  of  the  Bridge  House  suddenly  declined. 
That  was  because  Finley,  the  owner,  a  rich  man,  came 
to  hate  the  place — his  brother's  blood  stained  the  bar- 
room floor.  He  would  have  destroyed  the  house  but 
that  John  Rupert,  the  beggared  gentleman,  came  to 
him,  and  wished  to  rent  it  for  a  dwelling. 

129 


130  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Mr.  Rupert  was  old,  and  had  been  miserably  poor 
for  many  years,  but  he  had  a  breeding  and  a  manner 
superior  to  anyone  at  Bamber's  Boom.  He  was  too  old 
for  a  labourer,  he  had  no  art  or  craftsmanship ;  his  little 
money  was  gone  in  foolish  speculations,  and  he  was  de- 
pendent on  his  granddaughter's  slight  earnings  from 
music  teaching  and  needlework.  But  he  rented  an  acre 
of  ground  from  Finley,  and  grew  vegetables;  he  gathered 
driftwood  from  the  river  for  his  winter  fire,  and  made 
up  the  accounts  of  the  storekeeper  occasionally.  Yet  it 
was  merely  keeping  off  starvation.  He  was  not  popular. 
He  had  no  tongue  for  the  meaningless  village  talk.  Peo- 
ple held  him  in  a  kind  of  awe,  and  yet  they  felt  a  mean 
satisfaction  when  they  saw  him  shouldering  driftwood, 
and  piling  it  on  the  shore  to  be  dragged  away — the  last 
resort  of  the  poor,  for  which  they  blush. 

When  Mr.  Rupert  asked  for  the  House,  Finley  knew 
the  chances  were  he  would  not  get  the  rental;  yet,  be- 
cause he  was  sorry  for  the  old  man,  he  gave  it  to  him  at 
a  low  rate.  He  closed  up  the  bar-room,  however,  and 
it  was  never  opened  afterwards. 

So  it  was  that  Mr.  Rupert  and  Judith,  his  grand- 
daughter, came  to  live  there.  Judith  was  a  blithe,  lis- 
some creature,  who  had  never  known  comfort  or  riches : 
they  were  taken  from  her  grandfather  before  she  was 
born,  and  her  father  and  mother  both  died  when  she  was 
a  little  child.  But  she  had  been  taught  by  her  grand- 
mother, when  she  lived,  and  by  her  grandfather,  and 
she  had  felt  the  graces  of  refined  life.  Withal,  she  had  a 
singular  sympathy  for  the  rude,  strong  life  of  the  river. 
She  was  glad  when  they  came  to  live  at  the  Bridge 
House,  and  shamed  too:  glad  because  they  could  live 
apart  from  the  other  villagers;  shamed  because  it  ex- 
posed her  to  the  curiosity  of  those  who  visited  the 


THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE  131 

House,  thinking  it  was  still  a  tavern.    But  that  was 
only  for  a  time. 

One  night  Jules  Brydon,  the  young  river-boss,  camped 
with  his  men  at  Bamber's  Boom.  He  was  of  parents 
Scotch  and  French,  and  the  amalgamation  of  races  in 
him  made  a  striking  product.  He  was  cool  and  indom- 
itable, yet  hearty  and  joyous.  It  was  exciting  to  watch 
him  at  the  head  of  his  men,  breaking  up  a  jam  of  logs, 
and  it  was  a  delight  to  hear  him  of  an  evening  as  he  sang : 

"  Have  you  heard  the  cry  of  the  Long  Lachine, 
When  happy  is  the  sun  in  the  morning? 
The  rapids  long  and  the  banks  of  green, 
As  we  ride  away  in  the  morning, 

On  the  froth  of  the  Long  Lachine?  " 

One  day,  soon  after  they  came,  the  dams  and  booms 
were  opened  above,  and  forests  of  logs  came  riding  down 
to  Bamber's  Boom.  The  current  was  strong,  and  the 
logs  came  on  swiftly.  As  Brydon's  gang  worked,  they 
saw  a  man  out  upon  a  small  raft  of  driftwood,  which 
had  been  suddenly  caught  in  the  drive  of  logs,  and  was 
carried  out  towards  the  middle  channel.  The  river- 
drivers  laughed,  for  they  failed  to  see  that  the  man  was 
old,  and  that  he  could  not  run  across  the  rolling  logs 
to  the  shore.  The  old  man,  evidently  hopeless,  laid 
down  his  pike-pole,  folded  his  hands,  and  drifted  with 
the  logs.  The  river-drivers  stopped  laughing.  They 
began  to  understand. 

Brydon  saw  a  woman  standing  at  a  window  of  the 
House  waving  her  arms,  and  there  floated  up  the  river 
the  words,  " Father!  father!"  He  caught  up  a  pike- 
pole,  and  ran  over  that  spinning  floor  of  logs  to  the  raft. 
The  old  man's  face  was  white,  but  there  was  no  fear  in 
his  eyes. 


132  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"I  cannot  run  the  logs,"  he  said  at  once;  "I  never 
did;  I  am  too  old,  and  I  slip.  It's  no  use.  It  is  my 
granddaughter  at  that  window.  Tell  her  that  I'll  think 
of  her  to  the  last.  ...  Good-bye!" 

Brydon  was  eyeing  the  logs.  The  old  man's  voice 
was  husky;  he  could  not  cry  out,  but  he  waved  his 
hand  to  the  girl. 

"Oh,  save  him!"  came  from  her  faintly. 

Brydon's  eyes  were  now  on  the  covered  bridge.  Their 
raft  was  in  the  channel,  coming  straight  between  two 
piers.  He  measured  his  chances.  He  knew  if  he  slipped, 
doing  what  he  intended,  that  both  might  be  drowned, 
and  certainly  Mr.  Rupert;  for  the  logs  were  close,  and 
to  drop  among  them  was  a  bad  business.  If  they  once 
closed  over  there  was  an  end  of  everything. 

"Keep  quite  still,"  he  said,  "and  when  I  throw  you. 
catch." 

He  took  the  slight  figure  in  his  arms,  sprang  out  upon 
the  slippery  logs,  and  ran.  A  cheer  went  up  from  the 
men  on  the  shore,  and  the  people  who  were  gathering  on 
the  bridges,  too  late  to  be  of  service.  Besides,  the  bridge 
was  closed,  and  there  was  only  a  small  opening  at  the 
piers.  For  one  of  these  piers  Brydon  was  making.  He 
ran  hard.  Once  he  slipped  and  nearly  fell,  but  recovered. 
Then  a  floating  tree  suddenly  lunged  up  and  struck  him, 
so  that  he  dropped  upon  a  knee;  but  again  he  was  up, 
and  strained  for  the  pier.  He  was  within  a  few  feet  of 
it  as  they  came  to  the  bridge.  The  people  gave  a  cry 
of  fear,  for  they  saw  that  there  was  no  chance  of  both 
making  it;  because,  too,  at  the  critical  moment  a  space 
of  clear  water  showed  near  the  pier.  But  Brydon  raised 
John  Rupert  up,  balanced  himself,  and  tossed  him  at 
the  pier,  where  two  river-drivers  stood  stretching  out 
their  arms.  An  instant  afterwards  the  old  man  was  with 


THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE  133 

his  granddaughter.  But  Brydon  slipped  and  fell;  the 
roots  of  a  tree  bore  him  down,  and  he  was  gone  beneath 
the  logs! 

There  was  a  cry  of  horror  from  the  watchers,  then  all 
was  still.  But  below  the  bridge  they  saw  an  arm  thrust 
up  between  the  logs,  and  then  another  arm  crowding 
them  apart.  Now  a  head  and  shoulders  appeared. 
Luckily  the  piece  of  timber  which  Brydon  grasped  was 
square,  and  did  not  roll.  In  a  moment  he  was  standing 
on  it.  There  was  a  wild  shout  of  encouragement.  He 
turned  his  battered,  blood-stained  face  to  the  bridge 
for  an  instant,  and,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  and  a  sharp 
look  towards  the  rapids  below,  once  more  sprang  out. 
It  was  a  brave  sight,  for  the  logs  were  in  a  narrower 
channel  and  more  riotous.  He  rubbed  the  blood  out  of 
his  eyes  that  he  might  see  his  way.  The  rolling  forest 
gave  him  no  quarter,  but  he  came  on,  rocking  with 
weakness,  to  within  a  few  rods  of  the  shore.  Then  a 
half-dozen  of  his  men  ran  out  on  the  logs, — they  were 
packed  closely  here, — caught  him  up,  and  brought  him 
to  dry  ground. 

They  took  him  to  the  Bridge  House.  He  was  hurt 
• — more  than  he  or  they  thought.  The  old  man  and  the 
girl  met  them  at  the  door.  Judith  gave  a  little  cry  when 
she  saw  the  blood  and  Brydon's  bruised  face.  He  lifted 
his  head  as  though  her  eyes  had  drawn  his,  and,  their 
looks  meeting,  he  took  his  hat  off.  Her  face  flushed; 
she  dropped  her  eyes.  Her  grandfather  seized  Brydon's 
big  hand,  and  said  some  trembling  words  of  thanks. 
The  girl  stepped  inside,  made  a  bed  for  him  upon  the 
sofa,  and  got  him  something  to  drink.  She  was  very 
cool;  she  immediately  asked  Pierre  to  go  for  the  young 
doctor  who  had  lately  come  to  the  place,  and  made 
ready  warm  water  with  which  she  wiped  Brydon's 


134  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

blood-stained  face  and  hands,  and  then  gave  him  some 
brandy.  His  comrades  standing  round  watched  her  ad- 
miringly, she  was  so  deft  and  delicate.  Brydon,  as  if 
to  be  nursed  and  cared  for  was  not  manly,  felt  ashamed, 
and  came  up  quickly  to  a  sitting  posture,  saying, 
"Pshaw!  I'm  all  right!"  But  he  turned  sick  immedi- 
ately, and  Judith's  arms  caught  his  head  and  shoulders 
as  he  fell  back.  His  face  turned,  and  was  pillowed  on 
her  bosom.  At  this  she  blushed,  but  a  look  of  singular 
dignity  came  into  her  face.  Those  standing  by  were 
struck  with  a  kind  of  awe;  they  were  used  mostly  to  the 
daughters  of  habitants  and  fifty-acre  farmers.  Her  sen- 
sitive face  spoke  a  wonderful  language:  a  divine  grati- 
tude and  thankfulness;  and  her  eyes  had  a  clear  mois- 
ture which  did  not  dun  them.  The  situation  was  trying 
to  the  river-drivers — it  was  too  refined;  and  they 
breathed  more  freely  when  they  got  outside  and  left 
the  girl,  her  grandfather,  Pierre,  and  the  young  doctor 
alone  with  the  injured  man. 

That  was  how  the  thing  began.  Pierre  saw  the  con- 
clusion of  events  from  the  start.  The  young  doctor  did 
not.  From  the  hour  when  he  bound  up  Brydon's  head, 
Judith's  fingers  aiding  him,  he  felt  a  spring  in  his  blood 
new  to  him.  When  he  came  to  know  exactly  what  it 
meant,  and  acted,  it  was  too  late.  He  was  much  sur- 
prised that  his  advances  were  gently  repulsed.  He 
pressed  them  hard:  that  was  a  mistake.  He  had  an 
idea,  not  uncommon  in  such  cases,  that  he  was  confer- 
ring an  honour.  But  he  was  very  young.  A  gold  medal 
in  anatomy  is  likely  to  turn  a  lad's  head  at  the  start.  He 
falls  into  the  error  that  the  ability  to  demonstrate  the 
medulla  dblongata  should  likewise  suffice  to  convince  the 
heart  of  a  maid.  Pierre  enjoyed  the  situation;  he  knew 
life  all  round;  he  had  boxed  the  compass  of  experience. 


THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE  135 

He  belived  in  Judith.  The  old  man  interested  him:  he 
was  a  wreck  out  of  an  unfamiliar  life. 

"Well,  you  see,"  Pierre  said  to  Brydon  one  day,  as 
they  sat  on  the  high  cross-beams  of  the  little  bridge, 
' '  you  can't  kill  it  in  a  man — what  he  was  born.  Look,  as 
he  piles  up  the  driftwood  over  there.  Broken  down,  eh? 
Yes,  but  then  there  is  something — a  manner,  an  eye. 
He  piles  the  wood  like  champagne  bottles.  On  the  raft, 
you  remember,  he  took  off  his  hat  to  death.  That's 
different  altogether  from  us. " 

He  gave  a  sidelong  glance  at  Brydon,  and  saw  a 
troubled  look. 

"Yes,"  Brydon  said,  "he  is  different;  and  so  is 
she." 

"She  is  a  lady,"  Pierre  said,  with  slow  emphasis. 
"She  couldn't  hide  it  if  she  tried.  She  plays  the  piano, 
and  looks  all  silk  in  calico.  Made  for  this?  " — he  waved 
his  hand  towards  the  Bridge  House.  "No,  no!  made 
for—" 

He  paused,  smiled  enigmatically,  and  dropped  a  bit 
of  wood  on  the  swift  current. 

Brydon  frowned,  then  said:  "Well,  made  for  what, 
Pierre?" 

Pierre  looked  over  Brydon's  shoulder,  towards  a 
pretty  cottage  on  the  hillside.  "Made  for  homes  like 
that,  not  this,"  he  said,  and  he  nodded  first  towards  the 
hillside,  then  to  the  Bridge  House.  (The  cottage  be- 
longed to  the  young  doctor.)  A  growl  like  an  animal's 
came  from  Brydon,  and  he  clinched  the  other's  shoulder. 
Pierre  glanced  at  the  hand,  then  at  Brydon's  face,  and 
said  sharply:  "Take  it  away." 

The  hand  dropped;  but  Brydon's  face  was  hot,  and 
his  eyes  were  hard. 

Pierre  continued:  "But  then  women  are  strange. 


136  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

What  you  expect  they  will  not — no.  Riches? — it  is 
nothing;  houses  like  that  on  the  hill,  nothing.  They 
have  whims.  The  hut  is  as  good  as  the  house,  with  the 
kitchen  in  the  open  where  the  river  welts  and  washes, 
and  a  man — the  great  man  of  the  world  to  them — to 
play  the  little  game  of  life  with.  .  .  .  Pshaw!  you  are 
idle:  move;  you  are  thick  in  the  head:  think  hard;  you 
like  the  girl:  speak." 

As  he  said  this,  there  showed  beneath  them  the  front 
timbers  of  a  small  crib  of  logs  with  a  crew  of  two  men, 
making  for  the  rapids  and  the  slide  below.  Here  was 
an  adventure,  for  running  the  rapids  with  so  slight  a 
craft  and  small  a  crew  was  smart  work.  Pierre,  meas- 
uring the  distance,  and  with  a  "Look  out,  below!" 
swiftly  let  himself  down  by  his  arms  as  far  as  he  could, 
and  then  dropped  to  the  timbers,  as  lightly  as  if  it  were 
a  matter  of  two  feet  instead  of  twelve.  He  waved  a 
hand  to  Brydon,  and  the  crib  shot  on.  Brydon  sat 
eyeing  it  abstractedly  till  it  ran  into  the  teeth  of  the 
rapids,  the  long  oars  of  the  three  men  rising  and  falling 
to  the  monotonous  cry.  The  sun  set  out  the  men  and 
the  craft  against  the  tall  dark  walls  of  the  river  in  strong 
relief,  and  Brydon  was  carried  away  from  what  Pierre 
had  been  saying.  He  had  a  solid  pleasure  in  watching, 
and  he  sat  up  with  a  call  of  delight  when  he  saw  the  crib 
drive  at  the  slide.  Just  glancing  the  edge,  she  shot 
through  safely.  His  face  blazed. 

"A  pretty  sight!"  said  a  voice  behind  him. 

Without  a  word  he  swung  round,  and  dropped,  more 
heavily  than  Pierre,  beside  Judith. 

"It  gets  into  our  bones,"  he  said.  " Of  course,  though 
it  ain't  the  same  to  you,"  he  added,  looking  down  at 
her  over  his  shoulder.  "You  don't  care  for  things  so 
rough,  mebbe?" 


THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE  137 

"I  love  the  river,"  she  said  quietly. 

"We're  a  rowdy  lot,  we  river-drivers.  We  have  to  be. 
It's  a  rowdy  business." 

"I  never  noticed  that,"  she  replied,  gravely  smiling. 
"When  I  was  small  I  used  to  go  to  the  river-drivers' 
camps  with  my  brother,  and  they  were  always  kind  to 
us.  They  used  to  sing  and  play  the  fiddle,  and  joke: 
but  I  didn't  think  then  that  they  were  rowdy,  and  I 
don't  now.  They  were  never  rough  with  us." 

"No  one'd  ever  be  rough  with  you,"  was  the  reply. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said  suddenly,  and  turned  her  head 
away.  She  was  thinking  of  what  the  young  doctor  had 
said  to  her  that  morning;  how  like  a  foolish  boy  he  had 
acted :  upbraiding  her,  questioning  her,  saying  unreason- 
able things,  as  young  egoists  always  do.  In  years  she 
was  younger  than  he,  but  hi  wisdom  much  older :  in  all 
things  more  wise  and  just.  He  had  not  struck  her,  but 
with  his  reckless  tongue  he  had  cut  her  to  the  heart. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  repeated,  and  her  eyes  ran  up  to  his 
face  and  over  his  great  stalwart  body;  and  then  she 
leaned  over  the  railing  and  looked  into  the  water. 

"I'd  break  the  man  into  pieces  that  was  rough  with 
you,"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 

"Would  you?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper.  Then,  not 
giving  him  a  chance  to  reply,  "We  are  very  poor,  you 
know,  and  some  people  are  rough  with  the  poor — and 
proud.  I  remember,"  she  went  on,  simply,  dreamily, 
and  as  if  talking  to  herself,  "the  day  when  we  first  came 
to  the  Bridge  House.  I  sat  down  on  a  box  and  looked 
at  the  furniture — it  was  so  little — and  cried.  Coming 
here  seemed  the  last  of  what  grandfather  used  to  be. 
I  couldn't  help  it.  He  sat  down  too,  and  didn't  say  any- 
thing. He  was  very  pale,  and  I  saw  that  his  eyes  ached 
as  he  looked  at  me.  Then  I  got  angry  with  myself, 


138  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

and  sprang  up  and  went  to  work — and  we  get  along 
pretty  well." 

She  paused  and  sighed;  then,  after  a  minute:  "I 
love  the  river.  I  don't  believe  I  could  be  happy  away 
from  it.  I  should  like  to  live  on  it,  and  die  on  it,  and  be 
buried  in  it." 

His  eyes  were  on  her  eagerly.  But  she  looked  so 
frail  and  dainty  that  his  voice,  to  himself,  sounded  rude. 
Still,  his  hand  blundered  along  the  railing  to  hers,  and 
covered  it  tenderly — for  so  big  a  hand.  She  drew  her 
fingers  away,  but  not  very  quickly.  "Don't! "  she  said, 
"and — and  someone  is  coming!" 

There  were  footsteps  behind  them.  It  was  her  grand- 
father, carrying  a  board  fished  from  the  river.  He 
grasped  the  situation,  and  stood  speechless  with  wonder. 
He  had  never  thought  of  this.  He  was  a  gentleman,  in 
spite  of  all,  and  this  man  was  a  common  river-boss. 
Presently  he  drew  himself  up  with  an  ah*.  The  heavy 
board  was  still  in  his  arms.  Brydon  came  over  and  took 
the  board,  looking  him  squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"Mr.  Rupert,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  ask  something." 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"I  helped  you  out  of  a  bad  scrape  on  the  river?" 

Again  the  old  man  nodded. 

"Well,  mebbe,  I  saved  your  life.  For  that  I'm  going 
to  ask  you  to  draw  no  more  driftwood  from  the  Mada- 
waska — not  a  stick,  now  or  ever." 

"It  is  the  only  way  we  can  keep  from  freezing  in 
winter."  Mr.  Rupert  scarcely  knew  what  he  said. 

Brydon  looked  at  Judith,  who  turned  away,  then 
answered:  "Til  keep  you  from  freezing,  if  you'll  let 
me,  you — and  Judith." 

"Oh,  please  let  us  go  into  the  house,"  Judith  said 
hastily. 


THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE  139 

She  saw  the  young  doctor  driving  towards  them  out 
of  the  covered  bridge! 

When  Brydon  went  to  join  his  men  far  down  the  river 
he  left  a  wife  behind  him  at  the  Bridge  House,  where 
she  and  her  grandfather  were  to  stay  until  the  next  sum- 
mer. Then  there  would  be  a  journey  from  B amber's 
Boom  to  a  new  home. 

In  the  late  autumn  he  came,  before  he  went  away 
to  the  shanties  in  the  backwoods,  and  again  in  the  win- 
ter just  before  the  babe  was  born.  Then  he  went  far  up 
the  river  to  Rice  Lake  and  beyond,  to  bring  down  the 
drives  of  logs  for  his  Company.  June  came,  and  then 
there  was  a  sudden  sorrow  at  the  Bridge  House.  How 
great  it  was,  Pierre's  words  as  he  stood  at  the  door  one 
evening  will  testify.  He  said  to  the  young  doctor: 
"Save  the  child,  and  you  shall  have  back  the  I  0  U  on 
your  house."  Which  was  also  evidence  that  the  young 
doctor  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  gambling. 

The  young  doctor  looked  hard  at  him.  He  had  a 
selfish  nature.  "You  can  only  do  what  you  can  do," 
he  said. 

Pierre's  eyes  were  sinister.  "If  you  do  not  save  it, 
one  would  guess  why." 

The  other  started,  flushed,  was  silent,  and  then  said: 
"You  think  I'm  a  coward.  We  shall  see.  There  is  a 
way,  but  it  may  fail." 

And  though  he  sucked  the  diphtheria  poison  from 
the  child's  throat,  it  died  the  next  night. 

Still,  the  cottage  that  Pierre  and  Company  had  won 
was  handed  back  with  such  good  advice  as  only  a  world- 
wise  adventurer  can  give. 

Of  the  child's  death  its  father  did  not  know.  They 
were  not  certain  where  he  was.  But  when  the  mother 
took  to  her  bed  again,  the  young  doctor  said  it  was  best 
that  Brydon  should  come.  Pierre  had  time  and  incli- 


140  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

nation  to  go  for  him.  But  before  he  went  he  was  taken 
to  Judith's  bedside.  Pierre  had  seen  life  and  death  in 
many  forms,  but  never  anything  quite  like  this:  a 
delicate  creature  floating  away  upon  a  summer  current : 
travelling  in  those  valleys  which  are  neither  of  this  life 
nor  of  that;  but  where  you  hear  the  echoes  of  both,  and 
are  visited  by  solicitous  spirits.  There  was  no  pain  in 
her  face — she  heard  a  little,  familiar  voice  from  high 
and  pleasant  hills,  and  she  knew,  so  wise  are  the  dying, 
that  her  husband  was  travelling  after  her,  and  that  they 
would  be  all  together  soon.  But  she  did  not  speak  of 
that.  For  the  knowledge  born  of  such  a  time  is  locked 
up  in  the  soul. 

Pierre  was  awe-stricken.  Unconsciously  he  crossed 
himself. 

"Tell  him  to  come  quickly,"  she  said,  "if  you  find 
him," — her  fingers  played  with  the  coverlet, — "for  I 
wish  to  comfort  him.  .  .  .  Someone  said  that  you  were 
bad,  Pierre.  I  do  not  believe  it.  You  were  sorry  when 
my  baby  went  away.  I  am — going  away — too.  But 
do  not  tell  him  that.  Tell  Him  I  cannot  walk  about.  I 
want  him  to  carry  me — to  carry  me.  Will  you?" 

Pierre  put  out  his  hand  to  hers  creeping  along  the 
coverlet  to  him;  but  it  was  only  instinct  that  guided 
him,  for  he  could  not  see.  He  started  on  his  journey 
with  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes. 

One  evening  when  the  river  was  very  high  and  it  was 
said  that  Brydon's  drives  of  logs  would  soon  be  down, 
a  strange  thing  happened  at  the  Bridge  House. 

The  young  doctor  had  gone,  whispering  to  Mr.  Rupert 
that  he  would  come  back  later.  He  went  out  on  tiptoe, 
as  from  the  presence  of  an  angel.  His  selfishness  had 
dropped  away  from  him.  The  evening  wore  on,  and  in 
the  little  back  room  a  woman's  voice  said: 

"Is  it  morning  yet,  father?" 


THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE  141 

"It  is  still  day.    The  sun  has  not  set,  my  child." 

"I  thought  it  had  gone,  it  seemed  so  dark." 

"You  have  been  asleep,  Judith.  You  have  come  out 
of  the  dark." 

"No,  I  have  come  out  into  the  darkness — into  the 
world." 

"You  will  see  better  when  you  are  quite  awake." 

"I  wish  I  could  see  the  river,  father.  Will  you  go 
and  look?" 

Then  there  was  a  silence.    "Well?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  he  said,  "and  the  sun  is  still  bright." 

"You  see  as  far  as  Indian  Island?" 

"I  can  see  the  white  comb  of  the  reef  beyond  it,  my 
dear." 

"And  no  one — is  coming?" 

"There  are  men  making  for  the  shore,  and  the  fires 
are  burning,  but  no  one  is  coming  this  way.  ...  He 
would  come  by  the  road,  perhaps." 

"Oh  no,  by  the  river.  Pierre  has  not  found  him. 
Can  you  see  the  Eddy?" 

"Yes.  It  is  all  quiet  there;  nothing  but  the  logs 
tossing  round  it." 

"We  used  to  sit  there — he  and  I — by  the  big  cedar 
tree.  Everything  was  so  cool  and  sweet.  There  was 
only  the  sound  of  the  force-pump  and  the  swallowing  of 
the  Eddy.  They  say  that  a  woman  was  drowned  there, 
and  that  you  can  see  her  face  in  the  water,  if  you  happen 
there  at  sunrise,  weeping  and  smiling  also :  a  picture  in 
the  water.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  it  true,  father?" 

"Life  is  so  strange,  and  who  knows  what  is  not  life, 
my  child?" 

"When  baby  was  dying  I  held  it  over  the  water  be- 
neath that  window,  where  the  sunshine  falls  in  the 
evening;  and  it  looked  down  once  before  its  spirit 


142  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

passed  like  a  breath  over  my  face.  Maybe,  its  look  will 
stay,  for  him  to  see  when  he  comes.  It  was  just  below 
where  you  stand.  .  .  .  Father,  can  you  see  its  face?" 

"No,  Judith;  nothing  but  the  water  and  the  sun- 
shine." 

"Dear,  carry  me  to  the  window." 

When  this  was  done  she  suddenly  leaned  forward 
with  shining  eyes  and  anxious  fingers.  ' '  My  baby !  My 
baby!"  she  said. 

She  looked  -up  the  river,  but  her  eyes  were  fading, 
she  could  not  see  far.  "It  is  all  a  grey  light,"  she  said, 
"I  cannot  see  well."  Yet  she  smiled.  "Lay  me  down 
again,  father,"  she  whispered. 

After  a  little  she  sank  into  a  slumber.  All  at  once 
she  started  up.  "The  river,  the  beautiful  river!"  she 
cried  out  gently.  Then,  at  the  last,  "Oh,  my  dear, 
my  dear!" 

And  so  she  came  out  of  the  valley  into  the  high  hills. 

Later  he  was  left  alone  with  his  dead.  The  young 
doctor  and  others  had  come  and  gone.  He  would 
watch  till  morning.  He  sat  long  beside  her,  numb  to 
the  world.  At  last  he  started,  for  he  heard  a  low  clear 
call  behind  the  House.  He  went  out  quickly  to  the 
little  platform,  and  saw  through  the  dusk  a  man  draw- 
ing himself  up.  It  was  Brydon.  He  caught  the  old 
man's  shoulders  convulsively.  ' '  How  is  she?  "  he  asked. 

"Come  in,  my  son,"  was  the  low  reply.  The  old  man 
saw  a  grief  greater  than  his  own.  He  led  the  husband 
to  the  room  where  the  wife  lay  beautiful  and  still. 

"She  is  better,  as  you  see,"  he  said  bravely. 

The  hours  went,  and  the  two  sat  near  the  body,  one 
on  either  side.  They  knew  not  what  was  going  on  in 
the  world. 

As  they  mourned,  Pierre  and  the  young  doctor  sat 


THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE  143 

silent  in  that  cottage  on  the  hillside.  They  were  roused 
at  last.  There  came  up  to  Pierre's  keen  ears  the  sound 
of  the  river. 

' ' Let  us  go  out, ' '  he  said ;  "the  river  is  flooding.  You 
can  hear  the  logs." 

They  came  out  and  watched.  The  river  went  swish- 
ing, swilling  past,  and  the  dull  boom  of  the  logs  as  they 
struck  the  piers  of  the  bridge  or  some  building  on  the 
shore  came  rolling  to  them. 

"The  dams  and  booms  have  burst!"  Pierre  said. 

He  pointed  to  the  camps  far  up  the  river.  By  the 
light  of  the  camp-fires  there  appeared  a  wide  weltering 
flood  of  logs  and  debris.  Pierre's  eyes  shifted  to  the 
Bridge  House.  In  one  room  was  a  light.  He  stepped 
out  and  down,  and  the  other  followed.  They  had  almost 
reached  the  shore,  when  Pierre  cried  out  sharply: 
"What's  that?" 

He  pointed  to  an  indistinct  mass  bearing  down  upon 
the  Bridge  House.  It  was  a  big  shed  that  had  been 
carried  away,  and,  jammed  between  timbers,  had  not 
broken  up.  There  was  no  tune  for  warning.  It  came  on 
swiftly,  heavily.  There  was  a  strange,  horrible,  grind- 
ing sound,  and  then  they  saw  the  light  of  that  one  room 
move  on,  waving  a  little  to  and  fro — on  to  the  rapids, 
the  cohorts  of  logs  crowding  hard  after. 

Where  the  light  was  two  men  had  started  to  their 
feet  when  the  crash  came.  They  felt  the  House  move. 
' '  Run — save  yourself ! ' '  cried  the  old  man  quietly.  ' '  We 
are  lost!" 

The  floor  rocked. 

"Go,"  he  said  again.    "I  will  stay  with  her." 

"She  is  mine,"  Brydon  said;  and  he  took  her  in  his 
arms.  "I  will  not  go." 

They  could  hear  the  rapids  below.     The  old  man 


144  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

steadied  himself  in  the  deep  water  on  the  floor,  and 
caught  out  yearningly  at  the  cold  hands. 

"Come  close,  come  close,"  said  Brydon.  "Closer; 
put  your  arms  round  her." 

The  old  man  did  so.  They  were  locked  in  each  other's 
arms — dead  and  living. 

The  old  man  spoke,  with  a  piteous  kind  of  joy:  "We 
therefore  commit  her  body  to  the  deep — /" 

The  three  were  never  found. ' 


THE  EPAULETTES 

OLD  Athabasca,  chief  of  the  Little  Crees,  sat  at  the 
door  of  his  lodge,  staring  down  into  the  valley  where 
Fort  Pentecost  lay,  and  Mitawawa  his  daughter  sat 
near  him,  fretfully  pulling  at  the  fringe  of  her  fine  buck- 
skin jacket.  She  had  reason  to  be  troubled.  Fyles 
the  trader  had  put  a  great  indignity  upon  Athabasca. 
A  factor  of  twenty  years  before,  in  recognition  of  the 
chief's  merits  and  in  reward  of  his  services,  had  pre- 
sented him  with  a  pah*  of  epaulettes,  left  hi  the  Fort 
by  some  officer  hi  Her  Majesty's  service.  A  good, 
solid,  honest  pah*  of  epaulettes,  well  fitted  to  stand  the 
wear  and  tear  of  those  high  feasts  and  functions  at 
which  the  chief  paraded  them  upon  his  broad  shoulders. 
They  were  the  admiration  of  his  own  tribe,  the  wonder 
of  others,  the  envy  of  many  chiefs.  It  was  said  that 
Athabasca  wore  them  creditably,  and  was  no  more  im- 
mobile and  grand-mannered  than  became  a  chief  thus 
honoured  above  his  kind. 

But  the  years  went,  and  there  came  a  man  to  Fort 
Pentecost  who  knew  not  Athabasca.  He  was  young, 
and  tall  and  strong,  had  a  hot  temper,  knew  naught 
of  human  nature,  was  possessed  by  a  pride  more  mas- 
terful than  his  wisdom,  and  a  courage  stronger  than 
his  tact.  He  was  ever  for  high-handedness,  brooked 
no  interference,  and  treated  the  Indians  more  as  Com- 
pany's serfs  than  as  Company's  friends  and  allies. 
Also,  he  had  an  eye  for  Mitawawa,  and  found  favour 
in  return,  though  to  what  depth  it  took  a  long  time  te 

145 


146          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

show.  The  girl  sat  high  in  the  minds  and  desires  of 
the  young  braves,  for  she  had  beauty  of  a  heathen  kind, 
a  deft  and  dainty  finger  for  embroidered  buckskin,  a 
particular  fortune  with  a  bow  and  arrow,  and  the 
fleetest  foot.  There  were  mutterings  because  Fyles 
the  white  man  came  to  sit  often  in  Athabasca's  lodge. 
He  knew  of  this,  but  heeded  not  at  all.  At  last  Konto, 
a  young  brave  who  very  accurately  guessed  at  Fyles' 
intentions,  stopped  him  one  day  on  the  Grey  Horse 
Trail,  and  in  a  soft,  indolent  voice  begged  him  to  prove 
his  regard  in  a  fight  without  weapons,  to  the  death, 
the  survivor  to  give  the  other  burial  where  he  fell. 
Fyles  was  neither  fool  nor  coward.  It  would  have  been 
foolish  to  run  the  risk  of  leaving  Fort  and  people  mas- 
terless  for  an  Indian's  whim;  it  would  have  been  cow- 
ardly to  do  nothing.  So  he  whipped  out  a  revolver, 
and  bade  his  rival  march  before  him  to  the  Fort ;  which 
Konto  very  calmly  did,  begging  the  favour  of  a  bit  of 
tobacco  as  he  went. 

Fyles  demanded  of  Athabasca  that  he  should  sit  in 
judgment,  and  should  at  least  banish  Konto  from  his 
tribe,  hinting  the  while  that  he  might  have  to  put  a 
bullet  into  Konto's  refractory  head  if  the  thing  were 
not  done.  He  said  large  things  in  the  name  of  the 
H.B.C.,  and  was  surprised  that  Athabasca  let  them 
pass  unmoved.  But  that  chief,  after  long  consideration, 
during  which  he  drank  Company's  coffee  and  ate  Com- 
pany's pemmican,  declared  that  he  could  do  nothing: 
for  Konto  had  made  a  fine  offer,  and  a  grand  chance 
of  a  great  fight  had  been  missed.  This  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  several  petty  officers  and  Indians  and  woods- 
men at  the  Fort.  Fyles  had  vanity  and  a  nasty  tem- 
per. He  swore  a  little,  and  with  words  of  bluster  went 
over  and  ripped  the  epaulettes  from  the  chief's  shoulders 


THE  EPAULETTES  147 

as  a  punishment,  a  mark  of  degradation.  The  chief 
said  nothing.  He  got  up,  and  reached  out  his  hands 
as  if  to  ask  them  back;  and  when  Fyles  refused,  he 
went  away,  drawing  his  blanket  high  over  his  shoulders. 
It  was  wont  before  to  lie  loosely  about  him,  to  show  his 
badges  of  captaincy  and  alliance. 

This  was  about  the  time  that  the  Indians  were  mak- 
ing ready  for  the  buffalo,  and  when  their  chief  took  to 
his  lodge,  and  refused  to  leave  it,  they  came  to  ask  him 
why.  And  they  were  told.  They  were  for  making 
trouble,  but  the  old  chief  said  the  quarrel  was  his  own: 
he  would  settle  it  in  his  own  way.  He  would  not  go 
to  the  hunt.  Konto,  he  said,  should  take  his  place;  and 
when  his  braves  came  back  there  should  be  great  feast- 
ing, for  then  the  matter  would  be  ended. 

Half  the  course  of  the  moon  and  more,  and  Atha- 
basca came  out  of  his  lodge — the  first  tune  in  the  sun- 
light since  the  day  of  his  disgrace.  He  and  his  daughter 
sat  silent  and  watchful  at  the  door.  There  had  been 
no  word  between  Fyles  and  Athabasca,  no  word  be- 
tween Mitawawa  and  Fyles.  The  Fort  was  well-nigh 
tenantless,  for  the  half-breeds  also  had  gone  after 
buffalo,  and  only  the  trader,  a  clerk,  and  a  half-breed 
cook  were  left. 

Mitawawa  gave  a  little  cry  of  impatience :  she  had 
held  her  peace  so  long  that  even  her  slow  Indian  nature 
could  endure  no  more.  ' '  What  will  my  father  Athabasca 
do?"  she  asked.  "With  idleness  the  flesh  grows  soft, 
and  the  iron  melts  from  the  arm." 

"But  when  the  thoughts  are  stone,  the  body  is  as 
that  of  the  Mighty  Men  of  the  Kimash  Hills.  When 
the  bow  is  long  drawn,  beware  the  arrow." 

"  It  is  no  answer,"  she  said :  "what  will  my  father  do?  " 

"They  were  of  gold,"  he  answered,  "that  never  grew 


148          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

rusty.  My  people  were  full  of  wonder  when  they  stood 
before  me,  and  the  tribes  had  envy  as  they  passed.  It 
is  a  hundred  moons  and  one  red  midsummer  moon 
since  the  Great  Company  put  them  on  my  shoulders. 
They  were  light  to  carry,  but  it  was  as  if  I  bore  an 
army.  No  other  chief  was  like  me.  That  is  all  over. 
When  the  tribes  pass  they  will  laugh,  and  my  people 
will  scorn  me  if  I  do  not  come  out  to  meet  them  with 
the  yokes  of  gold." 

"But  what  will  my  father  do?"  she  persisted. 

"I  have  had  many  thoughts,  and  at  night  I  have 
called  on  the  Spirits  who  rule.  From  the  top  of  the 
Hill  of  Graves  I  have  beaten  the  soft  drum,  and  called, 
and  sung  the  hymn  which  wakes  the  sleeping  Spirits: 
and  I  know  the  way." 

"What  is  the  way?"  Her  eyes  filled  with  a  kind  of 
fear  or  trouble,  and  many  times  they  shifted  from  the 
Fort  to  her  father,  and  back  again.  The  chief  was 
silent.  Then  anger  leapt  into  her  face. 

"Why  does  my  father  fear  to  speak  to  his  child?" 
she  said.  "I  will  speak  plain.  I  love  the  man:  but  I 
love  my  father  also." 

She  stood  up,  and  drew  her  blanket  about  her,  one 
hand  clasped  proudly  on  her  breast.  "I  cannot  re- 
member my  mother;  but  I  remember  when  I  first 
looked  down  from  my  hammock  in  the  pine  tree,  and 
saw  my  father  sitting  by  the  fire.  It  was  in  the  evening 
like  this,  but  darker,  for  the  pines  made  great  shadows. 
I  cried  out,  and  he  came  and  took  me  down,  and  laid 
me  between  his  knees,  and  fed  me  with  bits  of  meat 
from  the  pot.  He  talked  much  to  me,  and  his  voice 
was  finer  than  any  other.  There  is  no  one  like  my 
father — Konto  is  nothing:  but  the  voice  of  the  white 
man,  Fyles,  had  golden  words  that  our  braves  do  not 


THE  EPAULETTES  149 

know,  and  I  listened.  Konto  did  a  brave  thing.  Fyles, 
because  he  was  a  great  man  of  the  Company,  would 
not  fight,  and  drove  him  like  a  dog.  Then  he  made 
my  father  as  a  worm  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  I  would 
give  my  life  for  Fyles  the  trader,  but  I  would  give  more 
than  my  life  to  wipe  out  my  father's  shame,  and  to 
show  that  Konto  of  the  Little  Crees  is  no  dog.  I  have 
been  carried  by  the  hands  of  the  old  men  of  my  people, 
I  have  ridden  the  horses  of  the  young  men :  their  shame 
is  my  shame." 

The  eyes  of  the  chief  had  never  lifted  from  the  Fort : 
nor  from  his  look  could  you  have  told  that  he  heard 
his  daughter's  words.  For  a  moment  he  was  silent, 
then  a  deep  fire  came  into  his  eyes,  and  his  wide  heavy 
brows  drew  up  so  that  the  frown  of  anger  was  gone. 
At  last,  as  she  waited,  he  arose,  put  out  a  hand  and 
touched  her  forehead. 

"Mitawawa  has  spoken  well,"  he  said.  "There  will 
be  an  end.  The  yokes  of  gold  are  mine:  an  honour 
given  cannot  be  taken  away.  He  has  stolen;  he  is  a 
thief.  He  would  not  fight  Konto :  but  I  am  a  chief  and 
he  shall  fight  me.  I  am  as  great  as  many  men — I  have 
carried  the  golden  yokes:  we  will  fight  for  them.  I 
thought  long,  for  I  was  afraid  my  daughter  loved  the 
man  more  than  her  people:  but  now  I  will  break  him 
in  pieces.  Has  Mitawawa  seen  him  since  the  shameful 
day?" 

"He  has  come  to  the  lodge,  but  I  would  not  let  him 
in  unless  he  brought  the  epaulettes.  He  said  he  would 
bring  them  when  Konto  was  punished.  I  begged  of 
him  as  I  never  begged  of  my  own  father,  but  he  was 
hard  as  the  ironwood  tree.  I  sent  him  away.  Yet  there 
is  no  tongue  like  his  in  the  world ;  he  is  tall  and  beauti- 
ful, and  has  the  face  of  a  spirit." 


150          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

From  the  Fort  Fyles  watched  the  two.  With  a  pair 
of  field-glasses  he  could  follow  their  actions,  could  al- 
most read  their  faces.  "There'll  be  a  lot  of  sulking 
about  those  epaulettes,  Mallory,"  he  said  at  last,  turn- 
ing to  his  clerk.  "Old  Athabasca  has  a  bee  in  his 
bonnet." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  just  as  well  to  give  'em  back,  sir?" 
Mallory  had  been  at  Fort  Pentecost  a  long  time,  and 
he  understood  Athabasca  and  his  Indians.  He  was  a 
solid,  slow-thinking  old  fellow,  but  he  had  that  wisdom 
of  the  north  which  can  turn  from  dove  to  serpent  and 
from  serpent  to  lion  in  the  moment. 

"Give  'em  back,  Mallory?  I'll  see  him  in  Jericho 
first,  unless  he  goes  on  his  marrow-bones  and  kicks 
Konto  out  of  the  camp." 

"Very  well,  sir.  But  I  think  we'd  better  keep  an 
eye  open." 

"Eye  open,  be  hanged!  If  he'd  been  going  to  riot 
he'd  have  done  so  before  this.  Besides,  the  girl — !" 

Mallory  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  his  master, 
whose  forehead  was  glued  to  the  field-glass.  His  little 
eyes  moved  as  if  in  debate,  his  slow  jaws  opened  once 
or  twice.  At  last  he  said:  "I'd  give  the  girl  the  go-by, 
Mr.  Fyles,  if  I  was  you,  unless  I  meant  to  marry  her." 

Fyles  suddenly  swung  round.  "Keep  your  place, 
blast  you,  Mallory,  and  keep  your  morals  too.  One'd 
think  you  were  a  missionary."  Then  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  anger:  "Damn  it  all,  if  my  men  don't  stand  by 
me  against  a  pack  of  treacherous  Indians,  I'd  better 
get  out." 

"Your  men  will  stand  by  you,  sir:  no  fear.  I've 
served  three  traders  here,  and  my  record  is  pretty  clean, 
Mr.  Fyles.  But  I'll  say  it  to  your  face,  whether  you 
like  it  or  not,  that  you're  not  as  good  a  judge  of  the 


THE  EPAULETTES  151 

Injin  as  me,  or  even  Due  the  cook:  and  that's  straight 
as  I  can  say  it,  Mr.  Fyles." 

Fyles  paced  up  and  down  in  anger — not  speaking; 
but  presently  threw  up  the  glass,  and  looked  towards 
Athabasca's  lodge.  "  They  're  gone,"  he  said  presently; 
"I'll  go  and  see  them  to-morrow.  The  old  fool  must 
do  what  I  want,  or  there'll  be  ructions." 

The  moon  was  high  over  Fort  Pentecost  when  Atha- 
basca entered  the  silent  yard.  The  dogs  growled,  but 
Indian  dogs  growl  without  reason,  and  no  one  heeds 
them.  The  old  chief  stood  a  moment  looking  at  the 
windows,  upon  which  slush-lights  were  throwing  heavy 
shadows.  He  went  to  Fyles'  window:  no  one  was  in 
the  room.  He  went  to  another :  Mallory  and  Due  were 
sitting  at  a  table.  Mallory  had  the  epaulettes,  looking 
at  them  and  fingering  the  hooks  by  which  Athabasca 
had  fastened  them  on.  Due  was  laughing:  he  reached 
over  for  an  epaulette,  tossed  it  up,  caught  it  and 
threw  it  down  with  a  guffaw.  Then  the  door  opened, 
and  Athabasca  walked  in,  seized  the  epualettes,  and 
went  swiftly  out  again.  Just  outside  the  door  Mallory 
clapped  a  hand  on  one  shoulder,  and  Due  caught  at  the 
epaulettes. 

Athabasca  struggled  wildly.  All  at  once  there  was 
a  cold  white  flash,  and  Due  came  huddling  to  Mallory's 
feet.  For  a  brief  instant  Mallory  and  the  Indian  fell 
apart,  then  Athabasca  with  a  contemptuous  fairness 
tossed  his  knife  away,  and  ran  in  on  his  man.  They 
closed;  strained,  swayed,  became  a  tangled  wrenching 
mass;  and  then  Mallory  was  lifted  high  into  the  air, 
and  came  down  with  a  broken  back. 

Athabasca  picked  up  the  epaulettes,  and  hurried 
away,  breathing  hard,  and  hugging  them  to  his  bare 
red-stained  breast.  He  had  nearly  reached  the  gate 


152  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

when  he  heard  a  cry.  He  did  not  turn,  but  a  heavy 
stone  caught  him  high  in  the  shoulders,  and  he  fell  on 
his  face  and  lay  clutching  the  epaulettes  in  his  out- 
stretched hands. 

Fyles'  own  hands  were  yet  lifted  with  the  effort  of 
throwing,  when  he  heard  the  soft  rush  of  footsteps, 
and  someone  came  swiftly  into  his  embrace.  A  pair 
of  arms  ran  round  his  shoulders — lips  closed  with  his — 
something  ice-cold  and  hard  touched  his  neck — he  saw 
a  bright  flash  at  his  throat. 

In  the  morning  Konto  found  Mitawawa  sitting  with 
wild  eyes  by  her  father's  body.  She  had  fastened  the 
epaulettes  on  its  shoulders.  Fyles  and  his  men  made  a 
grim  triangle  of  death  at  the  door  of  the  Fort. 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  BROKEN  SHUTTER 

"He  stands  in  the  porch  of  the  world — 

(Why  should  the  door  be  shut?) 
The  grey  wolf  waits  at  his  heel, 

(Why  is  the  window  barred?} 
Wild  is  the  trail  from  the  Kimash  Hills, 
The  blight  has  fallen  on  bush  and  tree, 
The  choking  earth  has  swallowed  the  streams, 
Hungry  and  cold  is  the  Red  Patrol: 

(Why  should  the  door  be  shut?) 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  has  come  to  bide — 

(Why  is  the  window  barred?)" 

PIERRE  stopped  to  listen.  The  voice  singing  was  clear 
and  soft,  yet  strong — a  mezzo-soprano  without  any  cul- 
ture save  that  of  practice  and  native  taste.  It  had  a 
singular  charm — a  sweet,  fantastic  sincerity.  He  stood 
still  and  fastened  his  eyes  on  the  house,  a  few  rods 
away.  It  stood  on  a  knoll  perching  above  Fort  Ste. 
Anne.  Years  had  passed  since  Pierre  had  visited  the 
Fort,  and  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  it  again,  after  many 
wanderings.  The  house  had  stood  here  in  the  old  days, 
and  he  remembered  it  very  well,  for  against  it  John 
Marcey,  the  Company's  man,  was  shot  by  Stroke 
Laforce,  of  the  Riders  of  the  Plains.  Looking  now, 
he  saw  that  the  shutter,  which  had  been  pulled  off  to 
bear  the  body  away,  was  hanging  there  just  as  he  had 
placed  it,  with  seven  of  its  slats  broken  and  a  dark  stain 
in  one  corner.  Something  more  of  John  Marcey  than 
memory  attached  to  that  shutter.  His  eyes  dwelt  on 

153 


154  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

it  long — he  recalled  the  scene:  a  night  with  stars  and 
no  moon,  a  huge  bonfire  to  light  the  Indians,  at  their 
dance,  and  Marcey,  Laforce,  and  many  others  there, 
among  whom  was  Lucille,  the  little  daughter  of  Gyng 
the  Factor.  Marcey  and  Laforce  were  only  boys  then, 
neither  yet  twenty-three,  and  they  were  friendly  rivals 
with  the  sweet  little  coquette,  who  gave  her  favors 
with  a  singular  impartiality  and  justice.  Once  Marcey 
had  given  her  a  gold  spoon.  Laforce  responded  with 
a  tiny,  fretted  silver  basket.  Laforce  was  delighted  to 
see  her  carrying  her  basket,  till  she  opened  it  and 
showed  the  spoon  inside.  There  were  many  mock  quar- 
rels, in  one  of  which  Marcey  sent  her  a  letter  by  the 
Company's  courier,  covered  with  great  seals,  saying, 
"I  return  you  the  hairpin,  the  egg-shell,  and  the  white 
wolf's  tooth.  Go  to  your  Laforce,  or  whatever  his 
ridiculous  name  may  be." 

In  this  way  the  pretty  game  ran  on,  the  little  golden- 
haired,  golden-faced,  golden-voiced  child  dancing  so 
gayly  in  their  hearts,  but  nestling  in  them  too,  after 
her  wilful  fashion,  until  the  serious  thing  came — the 
tragedy. 

On  the  mad  night  when  all  ended,  she  was  in  the 
gayest,  the  most  elf-like  spirits.  All  went  well  until 
Marcey  dug  a  hole  in  the  ground,  put  a  stone  in  it, 
and,  burying  it,  said  it  was  Laforce's  heart.  Then 
Laforce  pretended  to  ventriloquise,  and  mocked  Mar- 
cey's  slight  stutter.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the 
trouble,  and  Lucille,  like  any  lady  of  the  world,  troubled 
at  Laforce's  unkindness,  tried  to  smooth  things  over — 
tried  very  gravely.  But  the  playful  rivalry  of  many 
months  changed  its  composition  suddenly  as  through 
some  delicate  yet  powerful  chemical  action,  and  the 
savage  hi  both  men  broke  out  suddenly.  Where  motives 


HOUSE  WITH  THE  BROKEN  SHUTTER     155 

and  emotions  are  few  they  are  the  more  vital,  their 
action  is  the  more  violent.  No  one  knew  quite  what 
the  two  young  men  said  to  each  other,  but  presently, 
while  the  Indian  dance  was  on,  they  drew  to  the  side 
of  the  house,  and  had  their  duel  out  in  the  half -shadows, 
no  one  knowing,  till  the  shots  rang  on  the  night,  and 
John  Marcey,  without  a  cry,  sprang  into  the  air  and  fell 
face  upwards,  shot  through  the  heart. 

They  tried  to  take  the  child  away,  but  she  would  not 
go;  and  when  they  carried  Marcey  on  the  shutter  she 
followed  close  by,  resisting  her  father's  wishes  and  com- 
mands. And  just  before  they  made  a  prisoner  of 
Laforce,  she  said  to  him  very  quietly — so  like  a  woman 
she  was — "I  will  give  you  back  the  basket,  and  the 
riding-whip,  and  the  other  things,  and  I  will  never  for- 
give you — never — no,  never!" 

Stroke  Laforce  had  given  himself  up,  had  himself 
ridden  to  Winnipeg,  a  thousand  miles,  and  told  his 
story.  Then  the  sergeant's  stripes  had  been  stripped 
from  his  arm,  he  had  been  tried,  and  on  his  own  state- 
ment had  got  twelve  years'  imprisonment.  Ten  years 
had  passed  since  then — since  Marcey  was  put  away  in 
his  grave,  since  Pierre  left  Fort  Ste.  Anne,  and  he  had 
not  seen  it  or  Lucille  in  all  that  tune.  But  he  knew  that 
Gyng  was  dead,  and  that  his  widow  and  her  child  had 
gone  south  or  east  somewhere;  of  Laforce  after  his  sen- 
tence he  had  never  heard. 

He  stood  looking  at  the  house  from  the  shade  of 
the  solitary  pine-tree  near  it,  recalling  every  incident  of 
that  fatal  night.  He  had  the  gift  of  looking  at  a  thing 
in  its  true  proportions,  perhaps  because  he  had  little 
emotion  and  a  strong  brain,  or  perhaps  because  early 
in  life  his  emotions  were  rationalised.  Presently  he 
heard  the  voice  again: 


156  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"He  waits  at  the  threshold  stone — 

(Why  should  the  key-hole  rust?) 
The  eagle  broods  at  his  side, 

(Why  should  the  blind  be  drawn?) 
Long  has  he  watched,  and  far  has  he  called — 
The  lonely  sentinel  of  the  North — 
"Who  goes  there?"  to  the  wandering  soul: 
Heavy  of  heart  is  the  Red  Patrol — 

(Why  should  the  key-hole  rust?) 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  is  sick  for  home, 

(Why  should  the  blind  be  drawn?)" 

Now  he  recognised  the  voice.  Its  golden  timbre 
brought  back  a  young  girl's  golden  face  and  golden  hair. 
It  was  summer,  and  the  window  with  the  broken  shutter 
was  open.  He  was  about  to  go  to  it,  when  a  door  of 
the  house  opened,  and  a  girl  appeared.  She  was  tall, 
with  rich,  yellow  hair  falling  loosely  about  her  head; 
she  had  a  strong,  finely  cut  chin  and  a  broad  brow,  under 
which  a  pair  of  deep  blue  eyes  shone — violet  blue,  rare 
and  fine.  She  stood  looking  down  at  the  Fort  for  a  few 
moments,  unaware  of  Pierre's  presence.  But  presently 
she  saw  him  leaning  against  the  tree,  and  she  started 
as  from  a  spirit. 

"Monsieur!"  she  said — "Pierre!"  and  stepped  for- 
ward again  from  the  doorway. 

He  came  to  her,  and  "Ah,  p'tite  Lucille,"  he  said, 
"you  remember  me,  eh? — and  yet  so  many  years  ago!" 

"But  you  remember  me,"  she  answered,  "and  I  have 
changed  so  much!" 

"It  is  the  man  who  should  remember,  the  woman 
may  forget  if  she  will." 

Pierre  did  not  mean  to  pay  a  compliment;  he  was 
merely  thinking. 

She  made  a  little  gesture  of  deprecation.  "I  was  a 
child,"  she  said. 


HOUSE  WITH  THE  BROKEN  SHUTTER    157 

Pierre  lifted  a  shoulder  slightly.  "What  matter? 
It  is  sex  that  I  mean.  What  difference  to  me — five, 
or  forty,  or  ninety?  It  is  all  sex.  It  is  only  lovers,  the 
hunters  of  fire-flies,  that  think  of  age — mais  oui!" 

She  had  a  way  of  looking  at  you  before  she  spoke, 
as  though  she  were  trying  to  find  what  she  actually 
thought.  She  was  one  after  Pierre's  own  heart,  and  he 
knew  it;  but  just  here  he  wondered  where  all  that 
ancient  coquetry  was  gone,  for  there  were  no  traces  of 
it  left;  she  was  steady  of  eye,  reposeful,  rich  in  form 
and  face,  and  yet  not  occupied  with  herself.  He  had 
only  seen  her  for  a  minute  or  so,  yet  he  was  sure  that 
what  she  was  just  now  she  was  always,  or  nearly  so,  for 
the  habits  of  a  life  leave  their  mark,  and  show  through 
every  phase  of  emotion  and  incident  whether  it  be 
light  or  grave. 

"I  think  I  understand  you,"  she  said.  "I  think  I 
always  did  a  little,  from  the  time  you  stayed  with  Grah 
the  idiot  at  Fort  o'  God,  and  fought  the  Indians  when 
the  others  left.  Only — men  said  bad  things  of  you, 
and  my  father  did  not  like  you,  and  you  spoke  so  little 
to  me  ever.  Yet  I  mind  how  you  used  to  sit  and  watch 
me,  and  I  also  mind  when  you  rode  the  man  down  who 
stole  my  pony,  and  brought  them  both  back." 

Pierre  smiled — he  was  pleased  at  this.  "Ah,  my 
young  friend,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  forget  that  either,  for 
though  he  had  shaved  my  ear  with  a  bullet,  you  would 
not  have  him  handed  over  to  the  Riders  of  the  Plains 
— such  a  tender  heart!" 

Her  eyes  suddenly  grew  wide.  She  was  childlike  in 
her  amazement,  indeed,  childlike  in  all  ways,  for  she 
was  very  sincere.  It  was  her  great  advantage  to  live 
where  nothing  was  required  of  her  but  truth,  she  had 
not  suffered  that  sickness,  social  artifice. 


158  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"I  never  knew,"  she  said,  "that  he  had  shot  at  you — 
never!  You  did  not  tell  that." 

"There  is  a  tune  for  everything — the  tune  for  that 
was  not  till  now." 

"What  could  I  have  done  then?" 

"You  might  have  left  it  to  me.  I  am  not  so  pious 
that  I  can't  be  merciful  to  the  sinner.  But  this  man — 
this  Brickney — was  a  vile  scoundrel  always,  and  I 
wanted  him  locked  up.  I  would  have  shot  him  myself, 
but  I  was  tired  of  doing  the  duty  of  the  law.  Yes,  yes," 
he  added,  as  he  saw  her  smile  a  little.  "It  is  so.  I 
have  love  for  justice,  even  I,  Pretty  Pierre.  Why  not 
justice  on  myself?  Ha!  The  law  does  not  its  duty. 
And  maybe  some  day  I  shall  have  to  do  its  work  on 
myself.  Some  are  coaxed  out  of  life,  some  are  kicked 
out,  and  some  open  the  doors  quietly  for  themselves, 
and  go  a-hunting  Outside." 

"They  used  to  talk  as  if  one  ought  to  fear  you,"  she 
said,  "but" — she  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes — "but 
maybe  that's  because  you've  never  hid  any  badness." 

"It  is  no  matter,  anyhow,"  he  answered.  "I  live 
in  the  open,  I  walk  in  the  open  road,  and  I  stand  by 
what  I  do  to  the  open  law  and  the  gospel.  It  is  my 
whim — every  man  to  his  own  saddle." 

"It  is  ten  years,"  she  said  abruptly. 

"Ten  years  less  five  days,"  he  answered  as  sen- 
tentiously. 

"Come  inside,"  she  said  quietly,  and  turned  to  the 
door. 

Without  a  word  he  turned  also,  but  instead  of  going 
direct  to  the  door  came  and  touched  the  broken  shutter 
and  the  dark  stain  on  one  corner  with  a  delicate  fore- 
finger. Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  could  see  her 
on  the  doorstep,  looking  intently. 


HOUSE  WITH  THE  BROKEN  SHUTTER    159 

He  spoke  as  if  to  himself:  "It  has  not  been  touched 
since  then — no.  It  was  hardly  big  enough  for  him,  so 
his  legs  hung  over.  Ah,  yes,  ten  years—  Abroad,  John 
Marcey!"  Then,  as  if  still  musing,  he  turned  to  the 
girl:  "He  had  no  father  or  mother — no  one,  of  course; 
so  that  it  wasn't  so  bad  after  all.  If  you've  lived  with 
the  tongue  in  the  last  hole  of  the  buckle  as  you've  gone, 
what  matter  when  you  go!  C'est  6gal — it  is  all  the 
same. " 

Her  face  had  become  pale  as  he  spoke,  but  no  muscle 
stirred;  only  her  eyes  filled  with  a  deeper  color,  and 
her  hand  closed  tightly  on  the  door-jamb.  "Come  in, 
Pierre,"  she  said,  and  entered.  He  followed  her.  "My 
mother  is  at  the  Fort,"  she  added,  "but  she  will  be  back 
soon." 

She  placed  two  chairs  not  far  from  the  open  door. 
They  sat,  and  Pierre  slowly  rolled  a  cigarette  and 
lighted  it. 

"How  long  have  you  lived  here?"  he  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"It  is  seven  years  since  we  came  first,"  she  replied. 
"After  that  night  they  said  the  place  was  haunted,  and 
no  one  would  live  in  it,  but  when  my  father  died  my 
mother  and  I  came  for  three  years.  Then  we  went  east, 
and  again  came  back,  and  here  we  have  been." 

"The  shutter?"  Pierre  asked. 

They  needed  few  explanations — their  minds  were 
moving  with  the  same  thought. 

"I  would  not  have  it  changed,  and  of  course  no  one 
cared  to  touch  it.  So  it  has  hung  there." 

"As  I  placed  it  ten  years  ago,"  he  said. 

They  both  became  silent  for  a  time,  and  at  last 
he  said:  "Marcey  had  no  one, — Sergeant  Laforce  a 
mother." 


160  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"It  killed  his  mother,"  she  whispered,  looking  into 
the  white  sunlight.  She  was  noting  how  it  was  flashed 
from  the  bark  of  the  birch-trees  near  the  Fort. 

"His  mother  died,"  she  added  again,  quietly.  "It 
killed  her — the  gaol  for  him!" 

"An  eye  for  an  eye,"  he  responded. 

"Do  you  think  that  evens  John  Marcey's  death?" 
she  sighed. 

"As  far  as  Marcey's  concerned,"  he  answered.  "La- 
force  has  his  own  reckoning  besides." 

"It  was  not  a  murder,"  she  urged. 

"It  was  a  fair  fight,"  he  replied  firmly,  "and  Laforce 
shot  straight."  He  was  trying  to  think  why  she  lived 
here,  why  the  broken  shutter  still  hung  there,  why  the 
matter  had  settled  so  deeply  on  her.  He  remembered 
the  song  she  was  singing,  the  legend  of  the  Scarlet 
Hunter,  the  fabled  Savior  of  the  North. 

"  Heavy  of  heart  is  the  Red  Patrol — 

(Why  should  the  key-hole  rust?) 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  is  sick  for  home, 
(Why  should  the  blind  be  drawn?)" 

He  repeated  the  words,  lingering  on  them.  He  loved 
to  come  at  the  truth  of  things  by  allusive,  far-off  reflec- 
tions, rather  than  by  the  sharp  questioning  of  the  wit- 
ness-box. He  had  imagination,  refinement  in  such 
things.  A  light  dawned  on  him  as  he  spoke  the  words — 
all  became  clear.  She  sang  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter,  but 
she  meant  someone  else!  That  was  it — 

"Hungry  and  cold  is  the  Red  Patrol — 

(Why  should  the  door  be  shut?) 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  has  come  to  bide, 
(Why  is  the  window  barred?)" 


HOUSE  WITH  THE  BROKEN  SHUTTER    161 

But  why  did  she  live  here?  To  get  used  to  a  thought, 
to  have  it  so  near  her,  that  if  the  man — if  Laforce  him- 
self came,  she  would  have  herself  schooled  to  endure 
the  shadow  and  the  misery  of  it  all?  Ah,  that  was  it! 
The  little  girl,  who  had  seen  her  big  lover  killed,  who 
had  said  she  would  never  forgive  the  other,  who 
had  sent  him  back  the  fretted-silver  basket,  the  riding- 
whip,  and  other  things,  had  kept  the  criminal  in  her 
mind  all  these  years;  had,  out  of  her  childish  coquetry, 
grown  into — what?  As  a  child  she  had  been  wise  for 
her  years — almost  too  wise.  What  had  happened? 
She  had  probably  felt  sorrow  for  Laforce  at  first,  and 
afterwards  had  shown  active  sympathy,  and  at  last- 
no,  he  felt  that  she  had  not  quite  forgiven  him,  that, 
whatever  was,  she  had  not  hidden  the  criminal  in  her 
heart.  But  why  did  she  sing  that  song?  Her  heart  was 
pleading  for  him — for  the  criminal.  Had  she  and  her 
mother  gone  to  Winnipeg  to  be  near  Laforce,  to  com- 
fort him?  Was  Laforce  free  now,  and  was  she  unwilling? 
It  was  so  strange  that  she  should  thus  have  carried  on 
her  childhood  into  her  womanhood.  But  he  guessed 
her — she  had  imagination. 

"His  mother  died  in  my  arms  hi  Winnipeg,"  she  said 
abruptly  at  last.  "I'm  glad  I  was  some  comfort  to 
her.  You  see,  it  all  came  through  me — I  was  so  young 
and  spoiled  and  silly — John  Marcey's  death,  her  death, 
and  his  long  years  in  prison.  Even  then  I  knew  better 
than  to  set  the  one  against  the  other.  Must  a  child  not 
be  responsible?  I  was — lam!" 

"And  so  you  punish  yourself?" 

"It  was  terrible  for  me — even  as  a  child.  I  said  that 
I  could  never  forgive,  but  when  his  mother  died,  blessing 
me,  I  did.  Then  there  came  something  else." 

"You  saw  him,  chere  amie?" 


162 

"I  saw  him — so  changed,  so  quiet,  so  much  older — 
all  grey  at  the  temples.  At  first  I  lived  here  that  I 
might  get  used  to  the  thought  of  the  thing — to  learn  to 
bear  it;  and  afterwards  that  I  might  learn — "  She 
paused,  looking  in  half-doubt  at  Pierre. 

"It  is  safe;  I  am  silent,"  he  said. 

"That  I  might  learn  to  bear — him,"  she  continued. 

"Is  he  still—  "  Pierre  paused. 

She  spoke  up  quickly.  "Oh  no,  he  has  been  free  two 
years. ' ' 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  waited  for  a  minute,  then  said 
again,  "I  don't  know.  When  he  was  free,  he  came  to 
me,  but  I — I  could  not.  He  thought,  too,  that  because 
he  had  been  in  gaol,  that  I  wouldn't — be  his  wife.  He 
didn't  think  enough  of  himself,  he  didn't  urge  anything. 
And  I  wasn't  ready — no — no — no — how  could  I  be!  I 
didn't  care  so  much  about  the  gaol,  but  he  had  killed 
John  Marcey.  The  gaol — what  was  that  tome!  There 
was  no  real  shame  in  it  unless  he  had  done  a  mean  thing. 
He  had  been  wicked — not  mean.  Killing  is  awful,  but 
not  shameful.  Think — the  difference — if  he  had  been 
a  thief!" 

Pierre  nodded.  "Then  some  one  should  have  killed 
him!"  he  said.  "Well,  after?" 

"After — after — ah,  he  went  away  for  a  year.  Then 
he  came  back;  but  no,  I  was  always  thinking  of  that 
night  I  walked  behind  John  Marcey's  body  to  the  Fort. 
So  he  went  away  again,  and  we  came  here,  and  here  we 
have  lived." 

"He  has  not  come  here?" 

"No;  once  from  the  far  north  he  sent  me  a  letter  by 
an  Indian,  saying  that  he  was  going  with  a  half-breed 
to  search  for  a  hunting  party,  an  English  gentleman  and 


two  men  who  were  lost.  The  name  of  one  of  the  men 
was  Brickney." 

Pierre  stopped  short  in  a  long  whiffing  of  smoke. 
' '  Holy ! "  he  said, ' '  that  thief  Brickney  again.  He  would 
steal  the  broad  road  to  hell  if  he  could  carry  it.  He  once 
stole  the  quarters  from  a  dead  man's  eyes.  Man  Dieu! 
to  save  Brickney's  life,  the  courage  to  do  that — like 
sticking  your  face  in  the  mire  and  eating! —  But, 
pshaw!— go  on,  p'tite  Lucille." 

"There  is  no  more.    I  never  heard  again." 

"How  long  was  that  ago?" 

"Nine  months  or  more." 

"Nothing  has  been  heard  of  any  of  them?" 

"Nothing  at  all.  The  Englishman  belonged  to  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company,  but  they  have  heard  nothing 
down  here  at  Fort  Ste.  Anne." 

"If  he  saves  the  Company's  man,  that  will  make  up 
the  man  he  lost  for  them,  eh — you  think  that,  eh?" 
Pierre's  eyes  had  a  curious  ironical  light. 

"I  do  not  care  for  the  Company,"  she  said.  "John 
Marcey's  life  was  his  own." 

"Good!"  he  added  quickly,  and  his  eyes  admired 
her.  "That  is  the  thing.  Then,  do  not  forget  that 
Marcey  took  his  life  in  his  hands  himself,  that  he 
would  have  killed  Laforce  if  Laforce  hadn't  killed 
him." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  said,  "but  I  should  have  felt 
the  same  if  John  Marcey  had  killed  Stroke  Laforce." 

"It  is  a  pity  to  throw  your  life  away,"  he  ventured. 
He  said  this  for  a  purpose.  He  did  not  think  she  was 
throwing  it  away. 

She  was  watching  a  little  knot  of  horsemen  coming 
over  a  swell  of  the  prairie  far  off.  She  withdrew  her 
eyes  and  fixed  them  on  Pierre.  "Do  you  throw  your 


164          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

life  away  if  you  do  what  is  the  only  thing  you  are  told 
to  do?" 

She  placed  her  hand  on  her  heart — that  had  been  her 
one  guide. 

Pierre  got  to  his  feet,  came  over,  and  touched  her  on 
the  shoulder. 

"You  have  the  great  secret,"  he  said  quietly.  "The 
thing  may  be  all  wrong  to  others,  but  if  it's  right  to 
yourself — that's  it — mais  oui!  If  he  comes,"  he  added 
— "if  he  comes  back,  think  of  him  as  well  as  Marcey. 
Marcey  is  sleeping — what  does  it  matter?  If  he  is 
awake,  he  has  better  times,  for  he  was  a  man  to  make 
another  world  sociable.  Think  of  Laforce,  for  he  has 
his  life  to  live,  and  he  is  a  man  to  make  this  world  soci- 
able. 

'The  Scarlet  Hunter  is  sick  for  home — 
(Why  should  the  door  be  shut?)'" 

Her  eyes  had  been  following  the  group  of  horsemen 
on  the  plains.  She  again  fixed  them  on  Pierre,  and 
stood  up. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  legend — that,"  she  said. 

"But?— but?  "he  asked. 

She  would  not  answer  him.  "You  will  come  again," 
she  said;  "you  will — help  me?" 

"Surely,  p'tite  Lucille,  surely,  I  will  come.  But  to 
help — ah,  that  would  sound  funny  to  the  Missionary 
at  the  Fort  and  to  others!" 

"You  understand  life,"  she  said,  "and  I  can  speak 
to  you." 

"It's  more  to  you  to  understand  you  than  to  be  good, 
eh?" 

"I  guess  it's  more  to  any  woman,"  she  answered. 

They  both  passed  out  of  the  house.     She  turned 


HOUSE  WITH  THE  BROKEN  SHUTTER    165 

towards  the  broken  shutter.  Then  their  eyes  met.  A 
sad  little  smile  hovered  at  her  lips. 

"What  is  the  use?"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  fastened 
on  the  horsemen. 

He  knew  now  that  she  would  never  shudder  again  at 
the  sight  of  it,  or  at  the  remembrance  of  Marcey's 
death. 

"But  he  will  come,"  was  the  reply  to  her,  and  her 
smile  almost  settled  and  stayed. 

They  parted,  and  as  he  went  down  the  hill  he  saw 
far  over,  coming  up,  a  woman  in  black,  who  walked  as 
if  she  carried  a  great  weight.  "Every  shot  that  kills 
ricochets,"  he  said  to  himself: 

"His  mother  dead — her  mother  like  that!" 

He  passed  into  the  Fort,  renewing  acquaintances  in 
the  Company's  store,  and  twenty  minutes  after  he  was 
one  to  greet  the  horsemen  that  Lucille  had  seen  coming 
over  the  hills.  They  were  five,  and  one  had  to  be  helped 
from  his  horse.  It  was  Stroke  Laforce,  who  had  been 
found  near  dead  at  the  Metal  River  by  a  party  of  men 
exploring  in  the  north. 

He  had  rescued  the  Englishman  and  his  party,  but 
within  a  day  of  the  finding  the  Englishman  died,  leav- 
ing him  his  watch,  a  ring,  and  a  cheque  on  the  H.  B.  C. 
at  Winnipeg.  He  and  the  two  survivors,  one  of  whom 
was  Brickney,  started  south.  One  night  Brickney 
robbed  him  and  made  to  get  away,  and  on  his  seizing 
the  thief  he  was  wounded.  Then  the  other  man  came 
to  his  help  and  shot  Brickney:  after  that  weeks  of 
wandering,  and  at  last  rescue  and  Fort  Ste.  Anne. 

A  half-hour  after  this  Pierre  left  Laforce  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill  above  the  Fort,  and  did  not  turn  to  go  down 
till  he  had  seen  the  other  pass  within  the  house  with 
the  broken  shutter.  And  later  he  saw  a  little  bonfire 


166          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

on  the  hill.  The  next  evening  he  came  to  the  house 
again  himself.  Lucille  rose  to  meet  him. 

"'Why  should  the  door  be  shut?'"  he  quoted  smiling. 

"The  door  is  open,"  she  answered  quickly  and  with 
a  quiet  joy. 

He  turned  to  the  motion  of  her  hand,  and  saw  La- 
force  asleep  on  a  couch. 

Soon  afterwards,  as  he  passed  from  the  house,  he 
turned  towards  the  window.  The  broken  shutter  was 
gone. 

He  knew  now  the  meaning  of  the  bonfire  the  night 
before. 


THE  FINDING  OF  FINGALL 

' '  Fingatt !  Fingall  !—Oh,  Fingall !  " 

A  grey  mist  was  rising  from  the  river,  the  sun  was 
drinking  it  delightedly,  the  swift  blue  water  showed 
underneath  it,  and  the  top  of  Whitefaced  Mountain 
peaked  the  mist  by  a  hand-length.  The  river  brushed 
the  banks  like  rustling  silk,  and  the  only  other  sound, 
very  sharp  and  clear  in  the  liquid  monotone,  was  the 
crack  of  a  woodpecker's  beak  on  a  hickory  tree. 

It  was  a  sweet,  fresh  autumn  morning  in  Lonesome 
Valley.  Before  night  the  deer  would  bellow  reply  to 
the  hunters'  rifles,  and  the  mountain-goat  call  to  its 
unknown  gods;  but  now  there  was  only  the  wild  duck 
skimming  the  river,  and  the  high  hilltop  rising  and 
fading  into  the  mist,  the  ardent  sun,  and  again  that 
strange  cry — 

"Fingall!— Oh,  Fingall!  Fingall!" 

Two  men,  lounging  at  a  fire  on  a  ledge  of  the  hills, 
raised  their  eyes  to  the  mountain-side  beyond  and  above 
them,  and  one  said  presently: 

"The  second  time.    It's  a  woman's  voice,  Pierre." 

Pierre  nodded,  and  abstractedly  stirred  the  coals 
about  with  a  twig. 

"Well,  it  is  a  pity — the  poor  Cynthie,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"It  is  a  woman,  then.  You  know  her,  Pierre — her 
story?" 

"Fingall!  Fingall!— Oh,  Fingall!" 

Pierre  raised  his  head  towards  the  sound;  then  after 
a  moment,  said: 

167 


168 

"IknowFingall." 

"And  the  woman?    Tell  me." 

"And  the  girl.  Fingall  was  all  fire  and  heart,  and 
devil-may-care.  She — she  was  not  beautiful  except  in 
the  eye,  but  that  was  like  a  flame  of  red  and  blue.  Her 
hah-,  too — then — would  trip  her  up,  if  it  hung  loose. 
That  was  all,  except  that  she  loved  him  too  much.  But 
women — et  puis,  when  a  woman  gets  a  man  between  her 
and  the  heaven  above  and  the  earth  beneath,  and  there 
comes  the  great  hunger,  what  is  the  good!  A  man 
cannot  understand,  but  he  can  see,  and  he  can  fear. 
What  is  the  good!  To  play  with  life,  that  is  not  much; 
but  to  play  with  a  soul  is  more  than  a  thousand  lives. 
Look  at  Cynthie." 

He  paused,  and  Lawless  waited  patiently.  Presently 
Pierre  continued: 

Fingall  was  gentil;  he  would  take  off  his  hat  to  a 
squaw.  It  made  no  difference  what  others  did;  he 
didn't  think — it  was  like  breathing  to  him.  How  can 
you  tell  the  way  things  happen?  Cynthie's  father  kept 
the  tavern  at  St.  Gabriel's  Fork,  over  against  the  great 
saw-mill.  Fingall  was  foreman  of  a  gang  in  the  lumber- 
yard. Cynthie  had  a  brother — Fenn.  Fenn  was  as 
bad  as  they  make,  but  she  loved  him,  and  Fingall  knew 
it  well,  though  he  hated  the  young  skunk.  The  girl's 
eyes  were  like  two  little  fire-flies  when  Fingall  was 
about. 

"He  was  a  gentleman, though  he  had  only  half  a  name 
— Fingall — like  that.  I  think  he  did  not  expect  to  stay; 
he  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something — always  when 
the  mail  come  in  he  would  be  there;  and  afterwards 
you  wouldn't  see  him  for  a  time.  So  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  made  up  his  mind  to  think  nothing  of  Cynthie, 
and  to  say  nothing." 


THE  FINDING  OF  FINGALL  169 

"Fingall!  Fingall!—0h,  Fingall! J> 

The  strange,  sweet,  singing  voice  sounded  nearer. 

"She's  coming  this  way,  Pierre,"  said  Lawless. 

"I  hope  not  to  see  her.    What  is  the  good ! " 

"Well,  let  us  have  the  rest  of  the  story." 

"Her  brother  Fenn  was  in  Fingall's  gang.  One  day 
there  was  trouble.  Fenn  called  Fingall  a  liar.  The 
gang  stopped  piling;  the  usual  thing  did  not  come. 
Fingall  told  him  to  leave  the  yard,  and  they  would 
settle  some  other  tune.  That  night  a  wicked  thing 
happened.  We  were  sitting  in  the  bar-room  when  we 
heard  two  shots  and  then  a  fall.  We  ran  into  the  other 
room;  there  was  Fenn  on  the  floor,  dying.  He  lifted 
himself  on  his  elbow,  pointed  at  Fingall — and  fell 
back.  The  father  of  the  boy  stood  white  and  still  a 
few  feet  away.  There  was  no  pistol  showing — none 
at  all. 

"The  men  closed  in  on  Fingall.  He  did  not  stir — 
he  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  else.  He  had 
a  puzzled,  sorrowful  look.  The  men  roared  round  him, 
but  he  waved  them  back  for  a  moment,  and  looked  first 
at  the  father,  then  at  the  son.  I  could  not  understand 
at  first.  Someone  pulled  a  pistol  out  of  Fingall's  pocket 
and  showed  it.  At  that  moment  Cynthie  came  in. 
She  gave  a  cry.  By  the  holy!  I  do  not  want  to  hear  a 
cry  like  that  often.  She  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the 
boy,  and  caught  his  head  to  her  breast.  Then  with  a 
wild  look  she  asked  who  did  it.  They  had  just  taken 
Fingall  out  into  the  bar-room.  They  did  not  tell  her 
his  name,  for  they  knew  that  she  loved  him. 

"'Father.'  she  said  all  at  once,  'have  you  killed  the 
man  that  killed  Fenn?' 

"The  old  man  shook  his  head.  There  was  a  sick 
colour  in  his  face. 


170  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

'"Then  I  will  kill  him,'  she  said. 

"She  laid  her  brother's  head  down,  and  stood  up. 
Someone  put  in  her  hand  the  pistol,  and  told  her  it 
was  the  same  that  had  killed  Fenn.  She  took  it,  and 
came  with  us.  The  old  man  stood  still  where  he  was; 
he  was  like  stone.  I  looked  at  him  for  a  minute  and 
thought ;  then  I  turned  round  and  went  to  the  bar-room ; 
and  he  followed.  Just  as  I  got  inside  the  door,  I  saw 
the  girl  start  back,  and  her  hand  drop,  for  she  saw  that 
it  was  Fingall;  he  was  looking  at  her  very  strange.  It 
was  the  rule  to  empty  the  gun  into  a  man  who  had  been 
sentenced;  and  already  Fingall  had  heard  his,  'God- 
have-mercy!'  The  girl  was  to  do  it. 

"Fingall  said  to  her  in  a  muffled  voice,  'Fire— 
Cynthie!' 

"I  guessed  what  she  would  do.  In  a  kind  of  a  dream 
she  raised  the  pistol  up — up — up,  till  I  could  see  it  was 
just  out  of  range  of  his  head,  and  she  fired.  One!  two! 
three!  four!  five!  Fingall  never  moved  a  muscle;  but 
the  bullets  spotted  the  wall  at  the  side  of  his  head.  She 
stopped  after  the  five;  but  the  arm  was  still  held  out, 
and  her  finger  was  on  the  trigger;  she  seemed  to  be 
all  dazed.  Only  six  chambers  were  in  the  gun,  and  of 
course  one  chamber  was  empty.  Fenn  had  its  bullet 
in  his  lungs,  as  we  thought.  So  someone  beside  Cyn- 
thie touched  her  arm,  pushing  it  down.  But  there 
was  another  shot,  and  this  tune,  because  of  the  push, 
the  bullet  lodged  in  Fingall's  skull." 

Pierre  paused  now,  and  waved  with  his  hand  towards 
the  mist  which  hung  high  up  like  a  canopy  between 
the  hills. 

"But,"  said  Lawless,  not  heeding  the  scene,  "what 
about  that  sixth  bullet?" 

."Holy,  it  is  plain!     Fingall  did  not  fire  the  shot. 


THE  FINDING  OF  FINGALL  171 

His  revolver  was  full,  every  chamber,  when  Cynthie 
first  took  it." 

"Who  killed  the  lad?" 

"Can  you  not  guess?  There  had  been  words  be- 
tween the  father  and  the  boy:  both  had  fierce  blood. 
The  father,  in  a  mad  minute,  fired;  the  boy  wanted 
revenge  on  Fingall,  and,  to  save  his  father,  laid  it  on 
the  other.  The  old  man?  Well,  I  do  not  know  whether 
he  was  a  coward,  or  stupid,  or  ashamed — he  let  Fingall 
take  it." 

"Fingall  took  it  to  spare  the  girl,  eh?" 

"For  the  girl.  It  wasn't  good  for  her  to  know  her 
father  killed  his  own  son." 

"What  came  after?" 

"The  worst.  That  night  the  girPs  father  killed  him- 
self, and  the  two  were  buried  in  the  same  grave.  Cyn- 
thie—" 

"Fingall!  Fingall!— Oh,  Fingall!" 

"You  hear?  Yes,  like  that  all  the  time  as  she  sat 
on  the  floor,  her  hair  about  her  like  a  cloud,  and  the 
dead  bodies  in  the  next  room.  She  thought  she  had 
killed  Fingall,  and  she  knew  now  that  he  was  innocent. 
The  two  were  buried.  Then  we  told  her  that  Fingall 
was  not  dead.  She  used  to  come  and  sit  outside  the 
door,  and  listen  to  his  breathing,  and  ask  if  he  ever 
spoke  of  her.  What  was  the  good  of  lying?  If  we  said 
he  did,  she'd  have  come  in  to  him,  and  that  would  do 
no  good,  for  he  wasn't  right  in  his  mind.  By  and  by 
we  told  her  he  was  getting  well,  and  then  she  didn't 
come,  but  stayed  at  home,  just  saying  his  name  over 
to  herself.  Alors,  things  take  hold  of  a  woman — it  is 
strange!  When  Fingall  was  strong  enough  to  go  out, 
I  went  with  him  the  first  time.  He  was  all  thin  and 
handsome  as  you  can  think,  but  he  had  no  memory, 


172  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

and  his  eyes  were  like  a  child's.  She  saw  him,  and  came 
out  to  meet  him.  What  does  a  woman  care  for  the 
world  when  she  loves  a  man?  Well,  he  just  looked 
at  her  as  if  he'd  never  seen  her  before,  and  passed  by 
without  a  sign,  though  afterwards  a  trouble  came  in 
his  face.  Three  days  later  he  was  gone,  no  one  knew 
where.  That  is  two  years  ago.  Ever  since  she  has 
been  looking  for  him." 

"Is  she  mad?" 

"Mad?  Holy  Mother!  it  is  not  good  to  have  one 
thing  in  the  head  all  the  time!  What  do  you  think? 
So  much  all  at  once!  And  then — " 

"Hush,  Pierre!  There  she  is!"  said  Lawless,  point- 
ing to  a  ledge  of  rock  not  far  away. 

The  girl  stood  looking  out  across  the  valley,  a  weird, 
rapt  look  in  her  face,  her  hair  falling  loose,  a  staff  like 
a  shepherd's  crook  in  one  hand,  the  other  hand  over 
her  eyes  as  she  slowly  looked  from  point  to  point  of 
the  horizon. 

The  two  watched  her  without  speaking.  Presently 
she  saw  them.  She  gazed  at  them  for  a  minute,  then 
descended  to  them.  Lawless  and  Pierre  rose,  doffing 
their  hats.  She  looked  at  both  a  moment,  and  her  eyes 
settled  on  Pierre.  Presently  she  held  out  her  hand  to 
him.  "I  knew  you — yesterday,"  she  said. 

Pierre  returned  the  intensity  of  her  gaze  with  one 
kind  and  strong. 

"So-so,  Cynthie,"  he  said;  "sit  down  and  eat." 

He  dropped  on  a  knee  and  drew  a  scone  and  some 
fish  from  the  ashes.  She  sat  facing  them,  and,  taking 
from  a  bag  at  her  side  some  wild  fruits,  ate  slowly, 
saying  nothing.  Lawless  noticed  that  her  hair  had 
become  grey  at  her  temples,  though  she  was  but  one- 
and-twenty  years  old.  Her  face,  brown  as  it  was, 


THE  FINDING  OF  FINGALL  173 

shone  with  a  white  kind  of  light,  which  may,  or  may 
not,  have  come  from  the  crucible  of  her  eyes,  where  the 
tragedy  of  her  life  was  fusing.  Lawless  could  not  bear 
to  look  long,  for  the  fire  that  consumes  a  body  and  sets 
free  a  soul  is  not  for  the  sight  of  the  quick.  At  last  she 
rose,  her  body  steady,  but  her  hands  having  that  trem- 
ulous activity  of  her  eyes. 

"Will  you  not  stay,  Cynthie?"  asked  Lawless  very 
kindly. 

She  came  close  to  him,  and,  after  searching  his  eyes, 
said  with  a  smile  that  almost  hurt  him,  "When  I  have 
found  him,  I  will  bring  him  to  your  camp-fire.  Last 
night  the  Voice  said  that  he  waits  for  me  where  the  mist 
rises  from  the  river  at  daybreak,  close  to  the  home  of 
the  White  Swan.  Do  you  know  where  is  the  home  of 
the  White  Swan?  Before  the  frost  comes  and  the  red 
wolf  cries,  I  must  find  him.  Winter  is  the  tune  of  sleep. 
I  will  give  him  honey  and  dried  meat.  I  know  where 
we  shall  live  together.  You  never  saw  such  roses! 
Hush!  I  have  a  place  where  we  can  hide." 

Suddenly  her  gaze  became  fixed  and  dream-like,  and 
she  said  slowly:  "In  all  time  of  our  tribulation,  in  all 
time  of  our  wealth,  in  the  hour  of  death,  and  in  the  Day 
of  Judgment,  Good  Lord,  deliver  us!" 

"Good  Lord,  deliver  us!"  repeated  Lawless  in  a  low 
voice.  Without  looking  at  them,  she  slowly  turned 
away  and  passed  up  the  hill-side,  her  eyes  scanning 
the  valley  as  before. 

"Good  Lord,  deliver  us!"  again  said  Lawless. 
"Where  did  she  get  it?" 

"From  a  book  which  Fingall  left  behind." 

They  watched  her  till  she  rounded  a  cliff,  and  was 
gone;  then  they  shouldered  their  kits  and  passed  up 
the  river  on  the  trail  of  the  wapiti. 


174  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

One  month  later,  when  a  fine  white  surf  of  frost  lay 
on  the  ground,  and  the  sky  was  darkened  often  by  the 
flight  of  the  wild  geese  southward,  they  came  upon  a 
hut  perched  on  a  bluff,  at  the  edge  of  a  clump  of  pines. 
It  was  morning,  and  Whitefaced  Mountain  shone  clear 
and  high,  without  a  touch  of  cloud  or  mist  from  its 
haunches  to  its  crown. 

They  knocked  at  the  hut  door,  and,  in  answer  to  a 
voice,  entered.  The  sunlight  streamed  hi  over  a  woman, 
lying  upon  a  heap  of  dried  flowers  in  a  corner.  A  man 
was  kneeling  beside  her.  They  came  near,  and  saw 
that  the  woman  was  Cynthie. 

"Fingall!"  broke  out  Pierre,  and  caught  the  kneeling 
man  by  the  shoulder.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the 
woman's  eyes  opened. 

"Fingall! — Oh,  Fingall!"  she  said,  and  reached  up  a 
hand. 

Fingall  stooped  and  caught  her  to  his  breast : 

"Cynthie!  poor  girl!  Oh,  my  poor  Cynthie! "  he  said. 

In  his  eyes,  as  hi  hers,  was  a  sane  light,  and  his  voice, 
as  hers,  said  indescribable  things. 

Her  head  sank  upon  his  shoulder,  her  eyes  closed; 
she  slept.  Fingall  laid  her  down  with  a  sob  in  his 
throat;  then  he  sat  up  and  clutched  Pierre's  hand. 

"In  the  East,  where  the  doctors  cured  me,  I  heard 
all,"  he  said,  pointing  to  her,  "and  I  came  to  find  her. 
I  was  just  hi  tune;  I  found  her  yesterday." 

"She  knew  you?"  whispered  Pierre. 

"Yes,  but  this  fever  came  on."  He  turned  and  looked 
at  her,  and,  kneeling,  smoothed  away  the  hah-  from 
the  quiet  face.  "Poor  girl!"  he  said;  "poor  girl!" 

"She  will  get  well?"  asked  Pierre. 

"God  grant  it!"  Fingall  replied.  "She  is  better- 
better." 


THE  FINDING  OF  FINGALL  175 

Lawless  and  Pierre  softly  turned  and  stole  away, 
leaving  the  man  alone  with  the  woman  he  loved. 

The  two  stood  in  silence,  looking  upon  the  river 
beneath.  Presently  a  voice  crept  through  the  stillness. 

"Fingall!    Oh,  Fingall!— Fingall!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  woman  returning  from  the  dead. 


THREE   COMMANDMENTS  IN  THE 
VULGAR  TONGUE 


"READ  on,  Pierre,"  the  sick  man  said,  doubling  the 
corner  of  the  wolf -skin  pillow  so  that  it  shaded  his  face 
from  the  candle. 

Pierre  smiled  to  himself,  thinking  of  the  unusual 
nature  of  his  occupation,  raised  an  eyebrow  as  if  to 
someone  sitting  at  the  other  side  of  the  fire, — though 
the  room  was  empty  save  for  the  two — and  went  on 
reading: 

11 'Woe  to  the  multitude  of  many  people,  which  make  a 
noise  like  the  noise  of  the  seas;  and  to  the  rushing  of 
nations,  that  make  a  rushing  like  the  rushing  of  mighty 
waters  ! 

"The  nations  shall  rush  like  the  rushing  of  many 
waters:  but  God  shall  rebuke  them,  and  they  shall  flee 
far  off,  and  shall  be  chased  as  the  chaff  of  the  mountains 
before  the  wind,  and  like  a  rolling  thing  before  the  whirl- 
wind. 

"And  behold  at  evening-tide  trouble;  and  before  the 
morning  he  is  not.  This  is  the  portion  of  them  that  spoil 
us,  and  the  lot  of  them  that  rob  us" 

The  sick  man  put  up  his  hand,  motioning  for  silence, 
and  Pierre,  leaving  the  Bible  open,  laid  it  at  his  side. 
Then  he  fell  to  studying  the  figure  on  the  couch.  The 
body,  though  reduced  by  a  sudden  illness,  had  an  ap- 
pearance of  late  youth,  a  firmness  of  mature  manhood; 
but  the  hair  was  grey,  the  beard  was  grizzled,  and  the 

176 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  177 

face  was  furrowed  and  seamed  as  though  the  man  had 
lived  a  long,  hard  life.  The  body  seemed  thirty  years 
old,  the  head  sixty;  the  man's  exact  age  was  forty-five. 
His  most  singular  characteristic  was  a  fine,  almost 
spiritual  intelligence,  which  showed  in  the  dewy  bright- 
ness of  the  eye,  in  the  lighted  face,  in  the  cadenced 
definiteness  of  his  speech.  One  would  have  said,  know- 
ing nothing  of  him,  that  he  was  a  hermit;  but  again, 
noting  the  firm,  graceful  outlines  of  his  body,  that  he 
was  a  soldier.  Within  the  past  twenty-four  hours  he 
had  had  a  fight  for  life  with  one  of  the  terrible  "colds" 
which,  like  an  unstayed  plague,  close  up  the  courses  of 
the  body,  and  carry  a  man  out  of  the  hurly-burly,  with- 
out pause  to  say  how  much  or  how  little  he  cares  to  go. 

Pierre,  whose  rude  skill  in  medicine  was  got  of  hard 
experiences  here  and  there,  had  helped  him  back  into 
the  world  again,  and  was  himself  now  a  little  astonished 
at  acting  as  Scripture  reader  to  a  Protestant  invalid. 
Still,  the  Bible  was  like  his  childhood  itself,  always  with 
him  in  memory,  and  Old  Testament  history  was  as  wine 
to  his  blood.  The  lofty  tales  sang  in  his  veins :  of  primi- 
tive man,  adventure,  mysterious  and  exalted  romance. 
For  nearly  an  hour,  with  absorbing  interest,  he  had  read 
aloud  from  these  ancient  chronicles  to  Fawdor,  who  held 
this  Post  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  hi  the  outer 
wilderness. 

Pierre  had  arrived  at  the  Post  three  days  before,  to 
find  a  half-breed  trapper  and  an  Indian  helpless  before 
the  sickness  which  was  hurrying  to  close  on  John  Faw- 
dor's  heart  and  clamp  it  hi  the  vice  of  death.  He  had 
come  just  in  time.  He  was  now  ready  to  learn,  by  what 
ways  the  future  should  show,  why  this  man,  of  such 
unusual  force  and  power,  should  have  lived  at  a  deso- 
late post  in  Labrador  for  twenty-five  years. 


178          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

'"This  is  the  portion  of  them  that  spoil  us,  and  the 
lot  of  them  that  rob  us — ' "  Fawdor  repeated  the  words 
slowly,  and  then  said:  "It  is  good  to  be  out  of  the  rest- 
less world.  Do  you  know  the  secret  of  life,  Pierre?" 

Pierre's  fingers  unconsciously  dropped  on  the  Bible 
at  his  side,  drumming  the  leaves.  His  eyes  wandered 
over  Fawdor's  face,  and  presently  he  answered,  "To 
keep  your  own  commandments." 

"The  ten?"  asked  the  sick  man,  pointing  to  the  Bible. 

Pierre's  fingers  closed  the  book.  "Not  the  ten,  for 
they  do  not  fit  all;  but  one  by  one  to  make  your  own, 
and  never  to  break — comme  ga!" 

"The  answer  is  well,"  returned  Fawdor;  "but  what 
is  the  greatest  commandment  that  a  man  can  make  for 
himself?" 

"Who  can  tell?  What  is  the  good  of  saying,  'Thou 
shalt  keep  holy  the  Sabbath  day,'  when  a  man  lives 
where  he  does  not  know  the  days?  What  is  the  good  of 
saying,  'Thou  shalt  not  steal,'  when  a  man  has  no  heart 
to  rob,  and  there  is  nothing  to  steal?  But  a  man  should 
have  a  heart,  an  eye  for  justice.  It  is  good  for  him  to 
make  his  commandments  against  that  wherein  he  is  a 
fool  or  has  a  devil.  Justice, — that  is  the  thing." 

"'Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness  against  thy 
neighbour'?"  asked  Fawdor  softly. 

"Yes,  like  that.  But  a  man  must  put  it  in  his  own 
words,  and  keep  the  law  which  he  makes.  Then  life 
does  not  give  a  bad  taste  in  the  mouth." 

"What  commandments  have  you  made  for  yourself, 
Pierre?" 

The  slumbering  fire  in  Pierre's  face  leaped  up.  He 
felt  for  an  instant  as  his  father,  a  chevalier  of  France, 
might  have  felt  if  a  peasant  had  presumed  to  finger 
the  orders  upon  his  breast.  It  touched  his  native  pride, 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  179 

so  little  shown  in  anything  else.  But  he  knew  the  spirit 
behind  the  question,  and  the  meaning  justified  the  man. 

"Thou  shalt  think  with  the  minds  of  twelve  men,  and 
the  heart  of  one  woman,"  he  said,  and  paused. 

"Justice  and  mercy,"  murmured  the  voice  from  the 
bed. 

"Thou  shalt  keep  the  faith  of  food  and  blanket." 
Again  Pierre  paused. 

"And  a  man  shall  have  no  cause  to  fear  his  friend," 
said  the  voice  again. 

The  pause  was  longer  this  tune,  and  Pierre's  cold, 
handsome  face  took  on  a  kind  of  softness  before  he  said, 
"Remember  the  sorrow  of  thine  own  wife." 

"It  is  a  good  commandment,"  said  the  sick  man,  "to 
make  all  women  safe  whether  they  be  true — or  foolish." 

"The. strong  should  be  ashamed  to  prey  upon  the 
weak.  Pshaw!  such  a  sport  ends  in  nothing.  Man  only 
is  man's  game." 

Suddenly  Pierre  added:  "When  you  thought  you 
were  going  to  die,  you  gave  me  some  papers  and 
letters  to  take  to  Quebec.  You  will  get  well.  Shall 
I  give  them  back?  Will  you  take  them  yourself?" 

Fawdor  understood :  Pierre  wished  to  know  his  story. 
He  reached  out  a  hand,  saying,  "I  will  take  them  myself. 
You  have  not  read  them?" 

"No.  I  was  not  to  read  them  till  you  died — bien?" 
He  handed  the  packet  over. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  story,"  Fawdor  said,  turning  over 
on  his  side,  so  that  his  eyes  rested  full  on  Pierre. 

He  did  not  begin  at  once.  An  Esquimau  dog,  of  the 
finest  and  yet  wildest  breed,  which  had  been  lying  be- 
fore the  fire,  stretched  itself,  opened  its  red  eyes  at  the 
two  men,  and,  slowly  rising,  went  to  the  door  and  sniffed 
at  the  cracks.  Then  it  turned,  and  began  pacing  rest- 


180  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

lessly  around  the  room.  Every  little  while  it  would  stop, 
sniff  the  air,  and  go  on  again.  Once  or  twice,  also,  as  it 
passed  the  couch  of  the  sick  man,  it  paused,  and  at  last 
it  suddenly  rose,  rested  two  feet  on  the  rude  headboard 
of  the  couch,  and  pushed  its  nose  against  the  invalid's 
head.  There  was  something  rarely  savage  and  yet  beau- 
tifully soft  in  the  dog's  face,  scarred  as  it  was  by  the 
whips  of  earlier  owners.  The  sick  man's  hand  went 
up  and  caressed  the  wolfish  head.  "Good  dog,  good 
Akim!"  he  said  softly  in  French.  "Thou  dost  know 
when  a  storm  is  on  the  way;  thou  dost  know,  too, 
when  there  is  a  storm  in  my  heart." 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  wind  came  crying  round  the  house, 
and  the  parchment  windows  gave  forth  a  soft  booming 
sound.  Outside,  Nature  was  trembling  lightly  in  all 
her  nerves;  belated  herons,  disturbed  from  the  freshly 
frozen  pool,  swept  away  on  tardy  wings  into  the  night 
and  to  the  south;  a  herd  of  wolves,  trooping  by  the  hut, 
passed  from  a  short,  easy  trot  to  a  low,  long  gallop,  de- 
vouring, yet  fearful.  It  appeared  as  though  the  dumb 
earth  were  trying  to  speak,  and  the  mighty  effort  gave 
it  pain,  from  which  came  awe  and  terror  to  living  things. 

So,  inside  the  house,  also,  Pierre  almost  shrank  from 
the  unknown  sorrow  of  this  man  beside  him,  who  was 
about  to  disclose  the  story  of  his  life.  The  solitary 
places  do  not  make  men  glib  of  tongue;  rather,  spare  of 
words.  They  whose  tragedy  lies  in  the  capacity  to  suf- 
fer greatly,  being  given  the  woe  of  imagination,  bring 
forth  inner  history  as  a  mother  gasps  life  into  the  world. 

"I  was  only  a  boy  of  twenty-one,"  Fawdor  said  from 
the  pillow,  as  he  watched  the  dog  noiselessly  travelling 
from  corner  to  corner,  "and  I  had  been  with  the  Com- 
pany three  years.  They  had  said  that  I  could  rise  fast; 
I  had  done  so.  I  was  ambitious;  yet  I  find  solace  in 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  181 

thinking  that  I  saw  only  one  way  to  it, — by  patience, 
industry,  and  much  thinking.  I  read  a  great  deal,  and 
cared  for  what  I  read;  but  I  observed  also,  that  in  deal- 
ing with  men  I  might  serve  myself  and  the  Company 
wisely. 

"One  day  the  governor  of  the  Company  came  from 
England,  and  with  him  a  sweet  lady,  his  young  niece, 
and  her  brother.  They  arranged  for  a  tour  to  the  Great 
Lakes,  and  I  was  chosen  to  go  with  them  in  command 
of  the  boatmen.  It  appeared  as  if  a  great  chance  had 
come  to  me,  and  so  said  the  factor  at  Lachine  on  the 
morning  we  set  forth.  The  girl  was  as  winsome  as  you 
can  think;  not  of  such  wonderful  beauty,  but  with  a  face 
that  would  be  finer  old  than  young;  and  a  dainty  trick 
of  humour  had  she  as  well.  The  governor  was  a  testy 
man;  he  could  not  bear  to  be  crossed  in  a  matter;  yet, 
in  spite  of  all,  I  did  not  think  he  had  a  wilful  hardness. 
It  was  a  long  journey,  and  we  were  set  to  our  wits  to 
make  it  always  interesting;  but  we  did  it  somehow,  for 
there  were  fishing  and  shooting,  and  adventure  of  one 
sort  and  another,  and  the  lighter  things,  such  as  singing 
and  the  telling  of  tales,  as  the  boatmen  rowed  the  long 
river. 

"We  talked  of  many  things  as  we  travelled,  and  I 
was  glad  to  listen  to  the  governor,  for  he  had  seen  and 
read  much.  It  was  clear  he  liked  to  have  us  hang  upon 
his  tales  and  his  grand  speeches,  which  seemed  a  little 
large  in  the  mouth;  and  his  nephew,  who  had  a  mind  for 
raillery,  was  now  and  again  guilty  of  some  witty  imper- 
tinence; but  this  was  hard  to  bring  home  to  him,  for  he 
could  assume  a  fine  childlike  look  when  he  pleased,  con- 
fusing to  his  accusers.  Towards  the  last  he  grew  bolder, 
and  said  many  a  biting  thing  to  both  the  governor  and 
myself,  which  more  than  once  turned  his  sister's  face 


182  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

pale  with  apprehension,  for  she  had  a  nice  sense  of  kind- 
ness. Whenever  the  talk  was  at  all  general,  it  was  his 
delight  to  turn  one  against  the  other.  Though  I  was 
wary,  and  the  girl  understood  his  game,  at  last  he  had 
his  way. 

"I  knew  Shakespeare  and  the  Bible  very  well,  and, 
like  most  bookish  young  men,  phrase  and  motto  were 
much  on  my  tongue,  though  not  always  given  forth. 
One  evening,  as  we  drew  to  the  camp-fire,  a  deer  broke 
from  the  woods  and  ran  straight  through  the  little  circle 
we  were  making,  and  disappeared  in  the  bushes  by  the 
riverside.  Someone  ran  for  a  rifle;  but  the  governor 
forbade,  adding,  with  an  air,  a  phrase  with  philosophical 
point.  I,  proud  of  the  chance  to  show  I  was  not  a  mere 
backwoodsman  at  such  a  sport,  capped  his  aphorism 
with  a  line  from  Shakespeare's  Cymbeline. 

'"Tut,  tut!'  said  the  governor  smartly;  'you  haven't 
it  well,  Mr.  Fawdor;  it  goes  this  way,'  and  he  went  on 
to  set  me  right.  His  nephew  at  that  stepped  in,  and, 
with  a  little  disdainful  laugh  at  me,  made  some  galling 
gibe  at  my  'distinguished  learning.'  I  might  have 
known  better  than  to  let  it  pique  me,  but  I  spoke  up 
again,  though  respectfully  enough,  that  I  was  not  wrong. 
It  appeared  to  me  all  at  once  as  if  some  principle  were 
at  stake,  as  if  I  were  the  champion  of  our  Shakespeare; 
so  will  vanity  delude  us. 

"The  governor — I  can  see  it  as  if  it  were  yesterday — 
seemed  to  go  like  ice,  for  he  loved  to  be  thought  infallible 
in  all  such  things  as  well  as  in  great  business  affairs, 
and  his  nephew  was  there  to  give  an  edge  to  th£  matter. 
He  said,  curtly,  that  I  would  probably  come  on  better 
in  the  world  if  I  were  more  exact  and  less  cock-a-hoop 
with  myself.  That  stung  me,  for  not  only  was  the  young 
lady  looking  on  with  a  sort  of  superior  pity,  as  I  thought, 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  183 

but  her  brother  was  murmuring  to  her  under  his  breath 
with  a  provoking  smile.  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  should  be 
treated  like  a  schoolboy.  As  far  as  my  knowledge  went 
it  was  as  good  as  another  man's,  were  he  young  or  old, 
so  I  came  in  quickly  with  my  reply.  I  said  that  his 
excellency  should  find  me  more  cock-a-hoop  with  Shakes- 
peare than  with  myself.  'Well,  well/  he  answered,  with 
a  severe  look,  '  our  Company  has  need  of  great  men  for 
hard  tasks.'  To  this  I  made  no  answer,  for  I  got  a  warn- 
ing look  from  the  young  lady, — a  look  which  had  a  sort 
of  reproach  and  command  too.  She  knew  the  twists  and 
turns  of  her  uncle's  temper,  and  how  he  was  imperious 
and  jealous  in  little  things.  The  matter  dropped  for 
the  time;  but  as  the  governor  was  going  to  his  tent  for 
the  night,  the  young  lady  said  to  me  hurriedly,  'My 
uncle  is  a  man  of  great  reading — and  power,  Mr.  Faw- 
dor.  I  would  set  it  right  with  him,  if  I  were  you.'  For 
the  moment  I  was  ashamed.  You  cannot  guess  how 
fine  an  eye  she  had,  and  how  her  voice  stirred  one!  She 
said  no  more,  but  stepped  inside  her  tent;  and  then  I 
heard  the  brother  say  over  my  shoulder,  'Oh,  why 
should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud! '  Afterwards,  with 
a  little  laugh  and  a  backward  wave  of  the  hand,  as  one 
might  toss  a  greeting  to  a  beggar,  he  was  gone  also,  and 
I  was  left  alone." 

Fawdor  paused  in  his  narrative.  The  dog  had  lain 
down  by  the  fire  again,  but  its  red  eyes  were  blinking 
at  the  door,  and  now  and  again  it  growled  softly,  and 
the  long  hair  at  its  mouth  seemed  to  shiver  with  feeling. 
Suddenly  through  the  night  there  rang  a  loud,  barking 
cry.  The  dog's  mouth  opened  and  closed  in  a  noiseless 
snarl,  showing  its  keen,  long  teeth,  and  a  ridge  of  hair 
bristled  on  its  back.  But  the  two  men  made  no  sign  or 
motion.  The  cry  of  wild  cats  was  no  new  thing  to  them. 


184  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Presently  the  other  continued:  "I  sat  by  the  fire 
and  heard  beasts  howl  like  that,  I  listened  to  the  river 
churning  over  the  rapids  below,  and  I  felt  all  at  once  a 
loneliness  that  turned  me  sick.  There  were  three  people 
in  a  tent  near  me;  I  could  even  hear  the  governor's 
breathing;  but  I  appeared  to  have  no  part  in  the  life 
of  any  human  being,  as  if  I  were  a  kind  of  outlaw  of  God 
and  man.  I  was  poor;  I  had  no  friends;  I  was  at  the 
mercy  of  this  great  Company;  if  I  died,  there  was  not 
a  human  being  who,  so  far  as  I  knew,  would  shed  a  tear. 
Well,  you  see  I  was  only  a  boy,  and  I  suppose  it  was  the 
spirit  of  youth  hungering  for  the  huge,  active  world  and 
the  companionship  of  ambitious  men.  There  is  no  one 
so  lonely  as  the  young  dreamer  on  the  brink  of  life. 

"I  was  lying  by  the  fire.  It  was  not  a  cold  night, 
and  I  fell  asleep  at  last  without  covering.  I  did  not  wake 
till  morning,  and  then  it  was  to  find  the  governor's 
nephew  building  up  the  fire  again.  'Those  who  are 
born  great,'  said  he,  'are  bound  to  rise.'  But  perhaps 
he  saw  that  I  had  had  a  bad  night,  and  felt  that  he  had 
gone  far  enough,  for  he  presently  said,  in  a  tone  more 
to  my  liking,  'Take  my  advice,  Mr.  Fawdor;  make  it 
right  with  my  uncle.  It  isn't  such  fast  rising  in  the 
Company  that  you  can  afford  to  quarrel  with  its  gov- 
ernor. I'd  go  on  the  other  tack:  don't  be  too  honest.' 
I  thanked  him,  and  no  more  was  said;  but  I  liked  him 
better,  for  I  saw  that  he  was  one  of  those  who  take 
pleasure  hi  dropping  nettles  more  to  see  the  weakness 
of  human  nature  than  from  malice. 

"But  my  good  fortune  had  got  a  twist,  and  it  was  not 
to  be  straightened  that  day;  and  because  it  was  not 
straightened  then  it  was  not  to  be  at  all;  for  at  five 
o'clock  we  came  to  the  Post  at  Lachine,  and  here  the 
governor  and  the  others  were  to  stop.  During  all  the 


185 

day  I  had  waited  for  my  chance  to  say  a  word  of  apology 
to  his  excellency,  but  it  was  no  use;  nothing  seemed  to 
help  me,  for  he  was  busy  with  his  papers  and  notes,  and 
I  also  had  to  finish  up  my  reports.  The  hours  went  by, 
and  I  saw  my  chances  drift  past.  I  knew  that  the 
governor  held  the  thing  against  me,  and  not  the  less 
because  he  saw  me  more  than  once  that  day  in  speech 
with  his  niece.  For  she  appeared  anxious  to  cheer  me, 
and  indeed  I  think  we  might  have  become  excellent 
friends  had  our  ways  run  together.  She  could  have 
bestowed  her  friendship  on  me  without  shame  to  her- 
self, for  I  had  come  of  an  old  family  in  Scotland,  the 
Sheplaws  of  Canfire,  which  she  knew,  as  did  the  gov- 
ernor also,  was  a  more  ancient  family  than  their  own. 
Yet  her  kindness  that  day  worked  me  no  good,  and  I 
went  far  to  make  it  worse,  since,  under  the  spell  of  her 
gentleness,  I  looked  at  her  far  from  distantly,  and  at  the 
last,  as  she  was  getting  from  the  boat,  returned  the 
pressure  of  her  hand  with  much  interest.  I  suppose 
something  of  the  pride  of  that  moment  leaped  up  in 
my  eye,  for  I  saw  the  governor's  face  harden  more  and 
more,  and  the  brother  shrugged  an  ironical  shoulder. 
I  was  too  young  to  see  or  know  that  the  chief  thing  in 
the  girl's  mind  was  regret  that  I  had  so  hurt  my  chances; 
for  she  knew,  as  I  saw  only  too  well  afterwards,  that  I 
might  have  been  rewarded  with  a  leaping  promotion 
in  honour  of  the  success  of  the  journey.  But  though  the 
boatmen  got  a  gift  of  money  and  tobacco  and  spirits, 
nothing  came  to  me  save  the  formal  thanks  of  the  gov- 
ernor, as  he  bowed  me  from  his  presence. 

"The  nephew  came  with  his  sister  to  bid  me  farewell. 
There  was  little  said  between  her  and  me,  and  it  was 
a  long,  long  time  before  she  knew  the  end  of  that  day's 
business.  But  the  brother  said,  '  You've  let  the  chance 


186  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

go  by,  Mr.  Fawdor.  Better  luck  next  time,  eh?  And,' 
he  went  on,  '  I'd  give  a  hundred  editions  the  lie,  but  I'd 
read  the  text  according  to  my  chief  officer.  The  words 
of  a  king  are  always  wise  while  his  head  is  on,'  he  de- 
clared further,  and  he  drew  from  his  scarf  a  pin  of  pearls 
and  handed  it  to  me.  'Will  you  wear  that  for  me,  Mr. 
Fawdor?'  he  asked;  and  I,  who  had  thought  him  but  a 
stripling  with  a  saucy  pride,  grasped  his  hand  and  said 
a  God-keep-you.  It  does  me  good  now  to  think  I  said 
it.  I  did  not  see  him  or  his  sister  again. 

"The  next  day  was  Sunday.  About  two  o'clock  I 
was  sent  for  by  the  governor.  When  I  got  to  the  Post 
and  was  admitted  to  him,  I  saw  that  my  misadventure 
was  not  over.  'Mr.  Fawdor,'  said  he  coldly,  spreading 
out  a  map  on  the  table  before  him,  'you  will  start  at 
once  for  Fort  Ungava,  at  Ungava  Bay,  in  Labrador.' 
I  felt  my  heart  stand  still  for  a  moment,  and  then  surge 
up  and  down,  like  a  piston-rod  under  a  sudden  rush  of 
steam.  'You  will  proceed  now,'  he  went  on,  in  his  hard 
voice,  'as  far  as  the  village  of  Pont  Croix.  There  you 
will  find  three  Indians  awaiting  you.  You  will  go  on 
with  them  as  far  as  Point  St.  Saviour  and  camp  for 
the  night,  for  if  the  Indians  remain  in  the  village  they 
may  get  drunk.  The  next  morning,  at  sunrise,  you  will 
move  on.  The  Indians  know  the  trail  across  Labrador 
to  Fort  Ungava.  When  you  reach  there,  you  will  take 
command  of  the  Post  and  remain  till  further  orders. 
Your  clothes  are  already  at  the  village.  I  have  had  them 
packed,  and  you  will  find  there  also  what  is  necessary 
for  the  journey.  The  factor  at  Ungava  was  there  ten 
years;  he  has  gone — to  heaven.' 

"I  cannot  tell  what  it  was  held  my  tongue  silent, 
that  made  me  only  bow  my  head  in  assent,  and  press 
my  lips  together.  I  knew  I  was  pale  as  death,  for  as  I 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  187 

turned  to  leave  the  room  I  caught  sight  of  my  face  in  a 
little  mirror  tacked  on  the  door,  and  I  hardly  recognised 
myself. 

'"Good-day,  Mr.  Fawdor/  said  the  governor,  hand- 
ing me  the  map.  'There  is  some  brandy  hi  your  stores; 
be  careful  that  none  of  your  Indians  get  it.  If  they  try 
to  desert,  you  know  what  to  do.'  With  a  gesture  of 
dismissal  he  turned,  and  began  to  speak  with  the  chief 
trader. 

"For  me,  I  went  from  that  room  like  a  man  con- 
demned to  die.  Fort  Ungava  in  Labrador, — a  thou- 
sand miles  away,  over  a  barren,  savage  country,  and  in 
winter  too;  for  it  would  be  winter  there  immediately! 
It  was  an  exile  to  Siberia,  and  far  worse  than  Siberia; 
for  there  are  many  there  to  share  the  fellowship  of 
misery,  and  I  was  likely  to  be  the  only  white  man  at 
Fort  Ungava.  As  I  passed  from  the  door  of  the  Post 
the  words  of  Shakespeare  which  had  brought  all  this 
about  sang  in  my  ears."  He  ceased  speaking,  and  sank 
back  wearily  among  the  skins  of  his  couch.  Out  of  the 
enveloping  silence  Pierre's  voice  came  softly: 

"Thou  shalt  judge  with  the  minds  of  twelve  men, 
and  the  heart  of  one  woman." 

II 

"THE  journey  to  the  village  of  Pont  Croix  was  that  of 
a  man  walking  over  graves.  Every  step  sent  a  pang  to 
my  heart, — a  boy  of  twenty-one,  grown  old  in  a  mo- 
ment. It  was  not  that  I  had  gone  a  little  lame  from  a 
hurt  got  on  the  expedition  with  the  governor,  but  my 
whole  life  seemed  suddenly  lamed.  Why  did  I  go? 
Ah,  you  do  not  know  how  discipline  gets  into  a  man's 
bones, — the  pride,  the  indignant  pride  of  obedience!  At 


188          A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

that  hour  I  swore  that  I  should  myself  be  the  governor 
of  that  Company  one  day, — the  boast  of  loud-hearted 
youth.  I  had  angry  visions,  I  dreamed  absurd  dreams, 
but  I  did  not  think  of  disobeying.  It  was  an  unheard- 
of  journey  at  such  a  time,  but  I  swore  that  I  would  do 
it,  that  it  should  go  into  the  records  of  the  Company. 

"I  reached  the  village,  found  the  Indians,  and  at 
once  moved  on  to  the  settlement  where  we  were  to  stay 
that  night.  Then  my  knee  began  to  pain  me.  I  feared 
inflammation;  so  in  the  dead  of  night  I  walked  back 
to  the  village,  roused  a  trader  of  the  Company,  got 
some  liniment  and  other  trifles,  and  arrived  again  at 
St.  Saviour's  before  dawn.  My  few  clothes  and  neces- 
saries came  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  and  by  noon 
we  were  fairly  started  on  the  path  to  exile. 

"I  remember  that  we  came  to  a  lofty  point  on  the 
St.  Lawrence  just  before  we  plunged  into  the  woods,  to 
see  the  great  stream  no  more.  I  stood  and  looked  back 
up  the  river  towards  the  point  where  Lachine  lay.  All 
that  went  to  make  the  life  of  a  Company's  man  possible 
was  there;  and  there,  too,  were  those  with  whom  I  had 
tented  and  travelled  for  three  long  months, — eaten 
with  them,  cared  for  them,  used  for  them  all  the  wood- 
craft that  I  knew.  I  could  not  think  that  it  would  be 
a  young  man's  lifetime  before  I  set  eyes  on  that  scene 
again.  Never  from  that  day  to  this  have  I  seen  the 
broad,  sweet  river  where  I  spent  the  three  happiest 
years  of  my  life.  I  can  see  now  the  tall  shining  heights 
of  Quebec,  the  pretty  wooded  Island  of  Orleans,  the 
winding  channel,  so  deep,  so  strong.  The  sun  was  three- 
fourths  of  its  way  down  in  the  west,  and  already  the 
sky  was  taking  on  the  deep  red  and  purple  of  autumn. 
Somehow,  the  thing  that  struck  me  most  in  the  scene 
was  a  bunch  of  pines,  solemn  and  quiet,  their  tops  bur- 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  189 

nished  by  the  afternoon  light.  Tears  would  have  been 
easy  then.  But  my  pride  drove  them  back  from  my 
eyes  to  my  angry  heart.  Besides,  there  were  my  Indians 
waiting,  and  the  long  journey  lay  before  us.  Then,  per- 
haps because  there  was  none  nearer  to  make  farewell 
to,  or  I  know  not  why,  I  waved  my  hand  towards  the 
distant  village  of  Lachine,  and,  with  the  sweet  maid  in 
my  mind  who  had  so  gently  parted  from  me  yesterday, 
I  cried,  'Good-bye,  and  God  bless  you.": 

He  paused.  Pierre  handed  him  a  wooden  cup,  from 
which  he  drank,  and  then  continued: 

"The  journey  went  forward.  You  have  seen  the 
country.  You  know  what  it  is :  those  bare  ice-plains  and 
rocky  unfenced  fields  stretching  to  all  points,  the  heav- 
ing wastes  of  treeless  country,  the  harsh  frozen  lakes. 
God  knows  what  insupportable  horror  would  have 
settled  on  me  in  that  pilgrimage  had  it  not  been  for 
occasional  glimpses  of  a  gentler  life — for  the  deer  and 
caribou  which  crossed  our  path.  Upon  my  soul,  I  was 
so  full  of  gratitude  and  love  at  the  sight  that  I  could 
have  thrown  my  arms  round  their  necks  and  kissed 
them.  I  could  not  raise  a  gun  at  them.  My  Indians 
did  that,  and  so  inconstant  is  the  human  heart  that  I 
ate  heartily  of  the  meat.  My  Indians  were  almost  less 
companionable  to  me  than  any  animal  would  have  been. 
Try  as  I  would,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  like  them, 
and  I  feared  only  too  truly  that  they  did  not  like  me. 
Indeed,  I  soon  saw  that  they  meant  to  desert  me, — kill 
me,  perhaps,  if  they  could,  although  I  trusted  in  the 
wholesome  and  restraining  fear  which  the  Indian  has 
of  the  great  Company.  I  was  not  sure  that  they  were 
guiding  me  aright,  and  I  had  to  threaten  death  in  case 
they  tried  to  mislead  me  or  desert  me.  My  knee  at 
times  was  painful,  and  cold,  hunger,  and  incessant 


190  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

watchfulness  wore  on  me  vastly.  Yet  I  did  not  yield  to 
my  miseries,  for  there  entered  into  me  then  not  only  the 
spirit  of  endurance,  but  something  of  that  sacred  pride 
in  suffering  which  was  the  merit  of  my  Covenanting 
forefathers. 

"We  were  four  months  on  that  bitter  travel,  and  I 
do  not  know  how  it  could  have  been  made  at  all,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  deer  that  I  had  heart  to  eat  and  none 
to  kill.  The  days  got  shorter  and  shorter,  and  we  were 
sometimes  eighteen  hours  in  absolute  darkness.  Thus 
you  can  imagine  how  slowly  we  went.  Thank  God, 
we  could  sleep,  hid  away  in  our  fur  bags,  more  often 
without  a  fire  than  with  one, — mere  mummies  stretched 
out  on  a  vast  coverlet  of  white,  with  the  peering,  un- 
friendly sky  above  us;  though  it  must  be  said  that 
through  all  those  many,  many  weeks  no  cloud  perched 
in  the  zenith.  When  there  was  light  there  was  sun,  and 
the  courage  of  it  entered  into  our  bones,  helping  to  save 
us.  You  may  think  I  have  been  made  feeble-minded 
by  my  sufferings,  but  I  tell  you  plainly  that,  in  the  clos- 
ing days  of  our  journey,  I  used  to  see  a  tall  figure  walk- 
ing beside  me,  who,  whenever  I  would  have  spoken  to 
him,  laid  a  warning  finger  on  his  lips;  but  when  I  would 
have  fallen,  he  spoke  to  me,  always  in  the  same  words. 
You  have  heard  of  him,  the  Scarlet  Hunter  of  the 
Kimash  Hills.  It  was  he,  the  Sentinel  of  the  North, 
the  Lover  of  the  Lost.  So  deep  did  his  words  go  into 
my  heart  that  they  have  remained  with  me  to  this 
hour." 

"I  saw  him  once  in  the  White  Valley,"  Pierre  said 
in  a  low  voice.  "What  was  it  he  said  to  you?" 

The  other  drew  a  long  breath,  and  a  smile  rested  on 
his  lips.  Then,  slowly,  as  though  liking  to  linger  over 
them,  he  repeated  the  words  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter: 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  191 

"'0  son  of  man,  behold! 

If  thou  shouldest  stumble  on  the  nameless  trail, 
The  trail  that  no  man  rides, 
Lift  up  thy  heart, 
Behold,  O  son  of  man,  thou  hast  a  helper  near! 

te<O  son  of  man,  take  heed! 

If  thou  shouldst  fall  upon  the  vacant  plain, 

The  plain  that  no  man  loves, 

Reach  out  thy  hand, 

Take  heed,  O  son  of  man,  strength  shall  be  given  thee! 

"'O  son  of  man,  rejoice! 

If  thou  art  blinded  even  at  the  door, 

The  door  of  the  Safe  Tent, 

Sing  in  thy  heart, 

Rejoice,  O  son  of  man,  thy  pilot  leads  thee  home!' 

"I  never  seemed  to  be  alone  after  that — call  it  what 
you  will,  fancy  or  delirium.  My  head  was  so  light 
that  it  appeared  to  spin  like  a  star,  and  my  feet  were  so 
heavy  that  I  dragged  the  whole  earth  after  me.  My 
Indians  seldom  spoke.  I  never  let  them  drop  behind 
me,  for  I  did  not  trust  their  treacherous  natures.  But 
in  the  end,  as  it  would  seem,  they  also  had  but  one 
thought,  and  that  to  reach  Fort  Ungava;  for  there  was 
no  food  left,  none  at  all.  We  saw  no  tribes  of  Indians 
and  no  Esquimaux,  for  we  had  not  passed  hi  their  line 
of  travel  or  settlement. 

"At  last  I  used  to  dream  that  birds  were  singing 
near  me, — a  soft,  delicate  whirlwind  of  sound;  and  then 
bells  all  like  muffled  silver  rang  through  the  aching, 
sweet  air.  Bits  of  prayer  and  poetry  I  learned  when  a 
boy  flashed  through  my  mind;  equations  in  algebra; 
the  tingling  scream  of  a  great  buzz-saw;  the  breath  of 
a  racer  as  he  nears  the  post  under  the  crying  whip;  my 
own  voice  dropping  loud  profanity,  heard  as  a  lad  from 


192  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

a  blind  ferryman;  the  boom!  boom!  of  a  mass  of  logs 
as  they  struck  a  house  on  a  flooding  river  and  carried 
it  away.  .  .  . 

"One  day  we  reached  the  end.  It  was  near  evening, 
and  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  wooded  knoll.  My  eyes 
were  dancing  in  my  head  with  fatigue  and  weakness, 
but  I  could  see  below  us,  on  the  edge  of  the  great  bay, 
a  large  hut,  Esquimau  lodges  and  Indian  tepees  near 
it.  It  was  the  Fort,  my  cheerless  prison-house." 

He  paused.  The  dog  had  been  watching  him  with 
its  flaming  eyes;  now  it  gave  a  low  growl,  as  though  it 
understood,  and  pitied.  In  the  interval  of  silence  the 
storm  without  broke.  The  trees  began  to  quake  and 
cry,  the  light  snow  to  beat  upon  the  parchment  windows, 
and  the  chimney  to  splutter  and  moan.  Presently,  out 
on  the  bay  they  could  hear  the  young  ice  break  and 
come  scraping  up  the  shore.  Fawdor  listened  a  while, 
and  then  went  on,  waving  his  hand  to  the  door  as  he 
began:  " Think!  this,  and  like  that  always:  the  ungodly 
strife  of  nature,  and  my  sick,  disconsolate  life." 

"Ever  since?"  asked  Pierre. 

"All  the  time." 

"Why  did  you  not  go  back?" 

"I  was  to  wait  for  orders,  and  they  never  came." 

"You  were  a  free  man,  not  a  slave." 

"The  human  heart  has  pride.  At  first,  as  when  I 
left  the  governor  at  Lachine,  I  said,  '  I  will  never  speak, 
I  will  never  ask  nor  bend  the  knee.  He  has  the  power 
to  oppress;  I  can  obey  without  whining, — as  fine  a  man 
as  he.'" 

"Did  you  not  hate?" 

"At  first,  as  only  a  banisned  man  can  hate.  I  knew 
that  if  all  had  gone  well  I  should  be  a  man  high  up  in 
the  Company,  and  here  I  was,  living  like  a  dog  in  the 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  193 

porch  of  the  world,  sometimes  without  other  food  for 
months  than  frozen  fish;  and  for  two  years  I  was  in 
a  place  where  we  had  no  fire, — lived  in  a  snow-house, 
with  only  blubber  to  eat.  And  so  year  after  year, — 
no  word!" 

"The  mail  came  once  every  year  from  the  world?" 

"Yes,  once  a  year  the  door  of  the  outer  life  was 
opened.  A  ship  came  into  the  bay,  and  by  that  ship 
I  sent  out  my  reports.  But  no  word  came  from  the 
governor,  and  no  request  went  from  me.  Once  the  cap- 
tain of  that  ship  took  me  by  the  shoulders,  and  said, 
'Fawdor,  man,  this  will  drive  you  mad.  Come  away 
to  England, — leave  your  half-breed  hi  charge, — and 
ask  the  governor  for  a  big  promotion.'  He  did  not 
understand.  Of  course  I  said  I  could  not  go.  Then 
he  turned  on  me, — he  was  a  good  man, — and  said, 
'This  will  either  make  you  madman  or  saint,  Fawdor.' 
He  drew  a  Bible  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  me. 
'I've  used  it  twenty  years,'  he  said,  'in  evil  and  out  of 
evil,  and  I've  spiked  it  here  and  there;  it's  a  chart  for 
heavy  seas,  and  may  you  find  it  so,  my  lad.' 

"I  said  little  then;  but  when  I  saw  the  sails  of  his 
ship  round  a  cape  and  vanish,  all  my  pride  and  strength 
were  broken  up,  and  I  came  in  a  heap  to  the  ground, 
weeping  like  a  child.  But  the  change  did  not  come  all 
at  once.  There  were  two  things  that  kept  me  hard." 

"The  girl?" 

"The  girl,  and  another.  But  of  the  young  lady  after. 
I  had  a  half-breed  whose  life  I  had  saved.  I  was  kind 
to  him  always;  gave  him  as  good  to  eat  and  drink  as  I 
had  myself;  divided  my  tobacco  with  him;  loved  him 
as  only  an  exile  can  love  a  comrade.  He  conspired  with 
the  Indians  to  seize  the  Fort  and  stores,  and  kill  me  if 
I  resisted.  I  found  it  out." 


194  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"Thou  shalt  keep  the  faith  of  food  and  blanket," 
said  Pierre.  "What  did  you  do  with  him?" 

"The  fault  was  not  his  so  much  as  of  his  race  and  his 
miserable  past.  I  had  loved  him.  I  sent  him  away; 
and  he  never  came  back." 

"Thou  shalt  judge  with  the  minds  of  twelve  men, 
and  the  heart  of  one  woman." 

"For  the  girl.  There  was  the  thing  that  clamped  my 
heart.  Never  a  message  from  her  or  her  brother.  Surely 
they  knew,  and  yet  never,  thought  I,  a  good  word  for 
me  to  the  governor.  They  had  forgotten  the  faith 
of  food  and  blanket.  And  she — she  must  have  seen 
that  I  could  have  worshipped  her,  had  we  been  in  the 
same  way  of  life.  Before  the  better  days  came  to  me 
I  was  hard  against  her,  hard  and  rough  at  heart." 

"Remember  the  sorrow  of  thine  own  wife."  Pierre's 
voice  was  gentle. 

"Truly,  to  think  hardly  of  no  woman  should  be 
always  in  a  man's  heart.  But  I  have  known  only  one 
woman  of  my  race  in  twenty-five  years!" 

"And  as  tune  went  on?" 

"As  tune  went  on,  and  no  word  came,  I  ceased  to 
look  for  it.  But  I  followed  that  chart  spiked  with  the 
captain's  pencil,  as  he  had  done  it  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  and  by  and  by  I  ceased  to  look  for  any  word.  I 
even  became  reconciled  to  my  life.  The  ambitious  and 
aching  cares  of  the  world  dropped  from  me,  and  I  stood 
above  all — alone  hi  my  suffering,  yet  not  yielding. 
Loneliness  is  a  terrible  thing.  Under  it  a  man — " 

"Goes  mad  or  becomes  a  saint — a  saint!"  Pierre's 
voice  became  reverent. 

Fawdor  shook  his  head,  smiling  gently.  "Ah  no, 
no.  But  I  began  to  understand  the  world,  and  I  loved 
the  north,  the  beautiful  hard  north." 


THREE  COMMANDMENTS  135 

"But  there  is  more?" 

"  Yes,  the  end  of  it  all.  Three  days  before  you  came  I 
got  a  packet  of  letters,  not  by  the  usual  yearly  mail.  One 
announced  that  the  governor  was  dead.  Another—" 

"Another?"  urged  Pierre. 

—"was  from  Her.  She  said  that  her  brother,  on  the 
day  she  wrote,  had  by  chance  come  across  my  name 
in  the  Company's  records,  and  found  that  I  had  been 
here  a  quarter  of  a  century.  It  was  the  letter  of  a  good 
woman.  She  said  she  thought  the  governor  had  for- 
gotten that  he  had  sent  me  here — as  now  I  hope  he 
had,  for  that  would  be  one  thing  less  for  him  to  think  of, 
when  he  set  out  on  the  journey  where  the  only  weight 
man  carries  is  the  packload  of  his  sins.  She  also  said 
that  she  had  written  to  me  twice  after  we  parted  at 
Lachine,  but  had  never  heard  a  word,  and  three  years 
afterwards  she  had  gone  to  India.  The  letters  were  lost, 
I  suppose,  on  the  way  to  me,  somehow — who  can  tell? 
Then  came  another  thing,  so  strange,  that  it  seemed 
like  the  laughter  of  the  angels  at  us.  These  were  her 
words:  'And,  dear  Mr.  Fawdor,  you  were  both  wrong  in 
that  quotation,  as  you  no  doubt  discovered  long  ago.' 
Then  she  gave  me  the  sentence  as  it  is  in  Cymbeline. 
She  was  right,  quite  right.  We  were  both  wrong. 
Never  till  her  letter  came  had  I  looked  to  see.  How 
vain,  how  uncertain,  and  fallible,  is  man!" 

Pierre  dropped  his  cigarette,  and  stared  at  Fawdor. 
"The  knowledge  of  books  is  foolery,"  he  said  slowly. 
"Man  is  the  only  book  of  life.  Go  on." 

"There  was  another  letter,  from  the  brother,  who  was 
now  high  up  in  the  Company,  asking  me  to  come  to 
England,  and  saying  that  they  wished  to  promote  me 
far,  and  that  he  and  his  sister,  with  their  families,  would 
be  glad  to  see  me." 


196  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"She  was  married  then?" 

The  rashness  of  the  suggestion  made  Fawdor  wave 
his  hand  impatiently.  He  would  not  reply  to  it.  "I 
was  struck  down  with  all  the  news,"  he  said.  "I  wan- 
dered like  a  child  out  into  a  mad  storm.  Illness  came; 
then  you,  who  have  nursed  me  back  to  life.  .  .  .  And 
now  I  have  told  all." 

"Not  all,  Hen  sur.    What  will  you  do?" 

"I  am  out  of  the  world;  why  tempt  it  all  again?  See 
how  those  twenty-five  years  were  twisted  by  a  boy's 
vanity  and  a  man's  tyranny!" 

"But  what  will  you  do?"  persisted  Pierre.  "You 
should  see  the  faces  of  women  and  children  again.  No 
man  can  live  without  that  sight,  even  as  a  saint." 

Suddenly  Fawdor's  face  was  shot  over  with  a  storm 
of  feeling.  He  lay  very  still,  his  thoughts  busy  with  a 
new  world  which  had  been  disclosed  to  him.  "Youth 
hungers  for  the  vanities,"  he  said,  "and  the  middle- 
aged  for  home."  He  took  Pierre's  hand.  "I  will  go," 
he  added.  "A  door  will  open  somewhere  for  me." 

Then  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  The  storm  had 
ceased,  the  wild  dog  huddled  quietly  on  the  hearth, 
and  for  hours  the  only  sound  was  the  crackling  of  the 
logs  as  Pierre  stirred  the  fire. 


LITTLE  BABICHE 

"No,  no,  m'sieu'  the  governor,  they  did  not  tell  you 
right.  I  was  with  him,  and  I  have  known  Little  Babiche 
fifteen  years — as  long  as  I've  known  you.  ...  It  was 
against  the  time  when  down  in  your  world  there  they 
have  feastings,  and  in  the  churches  the  grand  songs 
and  many  candles  on  the  altars.  Yes,  Noel,  that  is  the 
word — the  day  of  the  Great  Birth.  You  shall  hear  how 
strange  it  all  was — the  thing,  the  tune,  the  end  of  it." 

The  governor  of  the  great  Company  settled  back  in 
a  chair,  his  powerful  face  seamed  by  years,  his  hair 
grey  and  thick  still,  his  keen,  steady  eyes  burning  under 
shaggy  brows.  He  had  himself  spent  long  solitary  years 
in  the  wild  fastnesses  of  the  north.  He  fastened  his 
dark  eyes  on  Pierre,  and  said:  "Monsieur  Pierre,  I 
shall  be  glad  to  hear.  It  was  at  the  time  of  Noel — 
yes?" 

Pierre  began:  "You  have  seen  it  beautiful  and  cold 
in  the  north,  but  never  so  cold  and  beautiful  as  it  was 
last  year.  The  world  was  white  with  sun  and  ice,  the 
frost  never  melting,  the  sun  never  warming — just  a 
glitter,  so  lovely,  so  deadly.  If  only  you  could  keep  the 
heart  warm,  you  were  not  afraid.  But  if  once — just  for 
a  moment — the  blood  ran  out  from  the  heart  and  did 
not  come  in  again,  the  frost  clamped  the  doors  shut, 
and  there  was  an  end  of  all.  Ah,  m'sieu',  when  the 
north  clinches  a  man's  heart  in  anger  there  is  no  pain 
like  it — for  a  moment." 

"Yes,  yes;  and  Little  Babiche?" 

197 


198  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"For  ten  years  he  carried  the  mails  along  the  route 
of  Fort  St.  Mary,  Fort  O' Glory,  Fort  St.  Saviour,  and 
Fort  Perseverance  within  the  circle — just  one  mail  once 
a  year,  but  that  was  enough.  There  he  was  with  his 
Esquimaux  dogs  on  the  trail,  going  and  coming,  with 
a  laugh  and  a  word  for  anyone  that  crossed  his  track. 
'Good-day,  Babiche.'  ' Good-day,  m'sieu'.'  'How  do 
you,  Babiche?'  'Well,  thank  the  Lord,  m'sieu'.' 
'Where  to  and  where  from,  Babiche?'  'To  the  Great 
Fort  by  the  old  trail,  from  the  Far-off  River,  m'sieuV 
'Come  safe  along,  Babiche.*  'Merci,  m'sieu';  the 
good  God  travels  north,  m'sieu'.'  'Adieu,  Babiche.' 
'Adieu,  m'sieu'.'  That  is  about  the  way  of  the  thing, 
year  after  year.  Somtimes  a  night  at  a  hut  or  a  post, 
but  mostly  alone — alone,  except  for  the  dogs.  He  slept 
with  them,  and  they  slept  on  the  mails — to  guard:  as 
though  there  should  be  highwaymen  on  the  Prairie  of 
the  Ten  Stars!  But  no,  it  was  his  way,  m'sieu'.  Now 
and  again  I  crossed  him  on  the  trail,  for  have  I  not 
travelled  to  every  corner  of  the  north?  We  were  not 
so  great  friends,  for — well,  Babiche  is  a  man  who  says 
his  aves,  and  never  was  a  loafer,  and  there  was  no  rea- 
son why  he  should  have  love  for  me;  but  we  were  good 
company  when  we  met.  I  knew  him  when  he  was  a 
boy  down  on  the  Chaudiere,  and  he  always  had  a  heart 
like  a  lion — and  a  woman.  I  had  seen  him  fight,  I  had 
seen  him  suffer  cold,  and  I  had  heard  him  sing. 

"Well,  I  was  up  last  fall  to  Fort  St.  Saviour.  Ho, 
how  dull  was  it!  Macgregor,  the  trader  there,  has 
brains  like  rubber.  So  I  said,  I  will  go  down  to  Fort 
O'Glory.  I  knew  someone  would  be  there — it  is  nearer 
the  world.  So  I  started  away  with  four  dogs  and  plenty 
of  jerked  buffalo,  and  so  much  brown  brandy  as  Mac- 
gregor could  squeeze  out  of  his  eye!  Never,  never  were 


LITTLE  BABICHE  199 

there  such  days — the  frost  shaking  like  steel  and  silver 
as  it  powdered  the  sunlight,  the  white  level  of  snow 
lifting  and  falling,  and  falling  and  lifting,  the  sky  so 
great  a  travel  away,  the  ah*  which  made  you  cry  out 
with  pain  one  minute  and  gave  you  joy  the  next.  And 
all  so  wild,  so  lonely!  Yet  I  have  seen  hanging  in  those 
plains  cities  all  blue  and  red  with  millions  of  lights 
showing,  and  voices,  voices  everywhere,  like  the  sing- 
ing of  soft  masses.  After  a  tune  in  that  cold  up  there 
you  are  no  longer  yourself — no.  You  move  in  a  dream. 
"Eh  bien,  m'sieu',  there  came,  I  thought,  a  dream 
to  me  one  evening — well,  perhaps  one  afternoon,  for 
the  days  are  short — so  short,  the  sun  just  coming  over 
a  little  bend  of  sky,  and  sinking  down  like  a  big  orange 
ball.  I  come  out  of  a  tumble  of  little  hills,  and  there 
over  on  the  plains  I  saw  a  sight!  Ragged  hills  of  ice 
were  thrown  up,  as  if  they'd  been  heaved  out  by  the 
breaking  earth,  jutting  here  and  there  like  wedges- 
like  the  teeth  of  a  world.  Alors,  on  one  crag,  shaped 
as  an  anvil,  I  saw  what  struck  me  like  a  blow,  and  I 
felt  the  blood  shoot  out  of  my  heart  and  leave  it  dry. 
I  was  for  a  minute  like  a  pump  with  no  water  in  its 
throat  to  work  the  piston  and  fetch  the  stream  up.  I 
got  sick  and  numb.  There  on  that -anvil  of  snow  and 
ice  I  saw  a  big  white  bear,  one  such  as  you  shall  see 
within  the  Arctic  Circle,  his  long  nose  fetching  out 
towards  that  bleeding  sun  in  the  sky,  his  white  coat 
shining.  But  that  was  not  the  thing — there  was  an- 
other. At  the  feet  of  the  bear  was  a  body,  and  one 
clawed  foot  was  on  that  body — of  a  man.  So  clear  was 
the  ah*,  the  red  sun  shining  on  the  face  as  it  was  turned 
towards  me,  that  I  wonder  I  did  not  at  once  know 
whose  it  was.  You  cannot  think,  m'sieu',  what  that 
was  like — no.  But  all  at  once  I  remembered  the  Chant 


200  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

of  the  Scarlet  Hunter.  I  spoke  it  quick,  and  the  blood 
came  creeping  back  in  here."  He  tapped  his  chest  with 
his  slight  forefinger. 

"What  was  the  chant?"  asked  the  governor,  who 
had  scarce  stirred  a  muscle  since  the  tale  began. 

Pierre  made  a  little  gesture  of  deprecation.  "Ah,  it 
is  perhaps  a  thing  of  foolishness,  as  you  may  think— 

"No,  no.  I  have  heard  and  seen  in  my  day,"  urged 
the  governor. 

"So?  Good.  Yes,  I  remember,  you  told  me  years 
ago,  m'sieu'.  .  .  . 

"The  blinding  Trail  and  Night  and  Cold  are  man's:  mine 
is  the  trail  that  finds  the  Ancient  Lodge.  Morning  and  Night 
they  travel  with  me;  my  camp  is  set  by  the  pines,  its  fires  are 
burning — are  burning.  The  lost,  they  shall  sit  by  my  fires,  and 
the  fearful  ones  shall  seek,  and  the  sick  shall  abide.  I  am  the 
Hunter,  the  Son  of  the  North;  I  am  thy  lover  where  no  man  may 
love  thee.  With  me  thou  shalt  journey,  and  thine  the  Safe 
Tent. 

"As  I  said,  the  blood  came  back  to  my  heart.  I 
turned  to  my  dogs,  and  gave  them  a  cut  with  the  whip 
to  see  if  I  dreamed.  They  sat  back  and  snarled,  and 
their  wild  red  eyes,  the  same  as  mine,  kept  looking  at 
the  bear  and  the  quiet  man  on  the  anvil  of  ice  and 
snow.  Tell  me,  can  you  think  of  anything  like  it? — 
the  strange  light,  the  white  bear  of  the  Pole,  that  has 
no  friends  at  all  except  the  shooting  stars,  the  great  ice 
plains,  the  quick  night  hurrying  on,  the  silence — such 
silence  as  no  man  can  think!  I  have  seen  trouble  flying 
at  me  in  a  hundred  ways,  but  this  was  different — yes. 
We  come  to  the  foot  of  the  little  hill.  Still  the  bear  not 
stir.  As  I  went  up,  feeling  for  my  knives  and  my  gun, 
the  dogs  began  to  snarl  with  anger,  and  for  one  little 
step  I  shivered,  for  the  thing  seem  not  natural.  I  was 


LITTLE  BABICHE  201 

about  two  hundred  feet  away  from  the  bear  when  it 
turned  slow  round  at  me,  lifting  its  foot  from  the  body. 
The  dogs  all  at  once  come  huddling  about  me,  and  I 
dropped  on  my  knee  to  take  aim,  but  the  bear  stole  away 
from  the  man  and  come  moving  down  past  us  at  an 
angle,  making  for  the  plain.  I  could  see  his  deep  shin- 
ing eyes,  and  the  steam  roll  from  his  nose  in  long  puffs. 
Very  slow  and  heavy,  like  as  if  he  see  no  one  and  care 
for  no  one,  he  shambled  down,  and  in  a  minute  was  gone 
behind  a  boulder.  I  ran  on  to  the  man — 

The  governor  was  leaning  forward,  looking  intently, 
and  said  now:  "It's  like  a  wild  dream — but  the  north — 
the  north  is  near  to  the  Strangest  of  All!" 

"I  knelt  down  and  lifted  him  up  in  my  arms,  all  a 
great  bundle  of  furs  and  wool,  and  I  got  my  hand  at 
last  to  his  wrist.  He  was  alive.  It  was  Little  Babiche! 
Part  of  his  face  was  frozen  stiff.  I  rubbed  out  the  frost 
with  snow,  and  then  I  forced  some  brandy  into  his 
mouth, — good  old  H.B.C.  brandy, — and  began  to  call 
to  him:  'Babiche!  Babiche!  Come  back,  Babiche! 
The  wolf's  at  the  pot,  Babiche!'  That's  the  way  to  call 
a  hunter  to  his  share  of  meat.  I  was  afraid,  for  the 
sleep  of  cold  is  the  sleep  of  death,  and  it  is  hard  to  call 
the  soul  back  to  this  world.  But  I  called,  and  kept 
calling,  and  got  him  on  his  feet,  with  my  arm  round 
him.  I  gave  him  more  brandy;  and  at  last  I  almost 
shrieked  in  his  ear.  Little  by  little  I  saw  his  face  take 
on  the  look  of  waking  life.  It  was  like  the  dawn  creep- 
ing over  white  hills  and  spreading  into  day.  I  said  to 
myself:  What  a  thing  it  will  be  if  I  can  fetch  him  back! 
For  I  never  knew  one  to  come  back  after  the  sleep  had 
settled  on  them.  It  is  too  comfortable — all  pain  gone, 
all  trouble,  the  world  forgot,  just  a  kind  weight  in  all 
the  body,  as  you  go  sinking  down,  down  to  the  valley, 


202  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

where  the  long  hands  of  old  comrades  beckon  to  you, 
and  their  soft,  high  voices  cry,  'Hello!  hello-o!" 

Pierre  nodded  his  head  towards  the  distance,  and  a 
musing  smile  divided  his  lips  on  his  white  teeth.  Pres- 
ently he  folded  a  cigarette,  and  went  on : 

"I  had  saved  something  to  the  last,  as  the  great  test, 
as  the  one  thing  to  open  his  eyes  wide,  if  they  could  be 
opened  at  all.  Alors,  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  for  the 
wolf  of  Night  was  driving  the  red  glow-worm  down 
behind  the  world,  and  I  knew  that  when  darkness  came 
altogether — darkness  and  night — there  would  be  no 
help  for  him.  Mon  Dieu!  how  one  sleeps  in  the  night 
of  the  north,  in  the  beautiful  wide  silence!  ...  So, 
m'sieu',  just  when  I  thought  it  was  the  tune,  I  called, 
'Corinne!  Corinne!'  Then  once  again  I  said,  'P'tite 
Corinne!  P'tite  Corinne!  Come  home!  come  home! 
P'tite  Corinne!'  I  could  see  the  fight  in  the  jail  of  sleep. 
But  at  last  he  killed  his  jailer;  the  doors  in  his  brain 
flew  open,  and  his  mind  came  out  through  his  wide  eyes. 
But  he  was  blind  a  little  and  dazed,  though  it  was 
getting  dark  quick.  I  struck  his  back  hard,  and  spoke 
loud  from  a  song  that  we  used  to  sing  on  the  Chaudiere 
— Babiche  and  all  of  us,  years  ago.  Mon  Dieu !  how  I 
remember  those  days — 

"'Which  is  the  way  that  the  sun  goes? 

The  way  that  my  little  one  come. 
Which  is  the  good  path  over  the  hills? 

The  path  that  leads  to  my  little  one's  home — 
To  my  little  one's  home,  m'sieu',  m'sieuT 

"That  did  it.  'Corinne,  ma  p'tite  Corinne!'  he  said; 
but  he  did  not  look  at  me — only  stretch  out  his  hands. 
I  caught  them,  and  shook  them,  and  shook  him,  and 
made  him  take  a  step  forward;  then  I  slap  him  on  the 


LITTLE   BABICHE  203 

back  again,  and  said  loud :  '  Come,  come,  Babiche,  don't 
you  know  me?  See  Babiche,  the  snow's  no  sleeping- 
bunk,  and  a  polar  bear's  no  good  friend.'  'CorinneP 
he  went  on,  soft  and  slow.  'Ma  p'tite  Corinne!'  He 
smiled  to  himself;  and  I  said,  '  Where' ve  you  been, 
Babiche?  Lucky  I  found  you,  or  you'd  have  been 
sleeping  till  the  Great  Mass.'  Then  he  looked  at  me 
straight  in  the  eyes,  and  something  wild  shot  out  of 
his.  His  hand  stretched  over  and  caught  me  by  the 
shoulder,  perhaps  to  steady  himself,  perhaps  because 
he  wanted  to  feel  something  human.  Then  he  looked 
round  slow — all  round  the  plain,  as  if  to  find  something. 
At  that  moment  a  little  of  the  sun  crept  back,  and  looked 
up  over  the  wall  of  ice,  making  a  glow  of  yellow  and  red 
for  a  moment;  and  never,  north  or  south,  have  I  seen 
such  beauty — so  delicate,  so  awful.  It  was  like  a 
world  that  its  Maker  had  built  hi  a  fit  of  joy,  and  then 
got  tired  of,  and  broke  in  pieces,  and  blew  out  all  its 
fires,  and  left — ah  yes — like  that!  And  out  in  the  dis- 
tance I — I  only  saw  a  bear  travelling  eastwards." 
The  governor  said  slowly: 

And  I  took  My  staff  Beauty,  and  cut  it  asunder,  that  I 
might  break  My  covenant  which  I  had  made  with  all  the 
people. 

"Yes  —  like  that."  Pierre  continued:  "Babiche 
turned  to  me  with  a  little  laugh,  which  was  a  sob  too. 
'Where  is  it,  Pierre?'  said  he.  I  knew  he  meant  the 
bear.  'Gone  to  look  for  another  man,'  I  said,  with  a 
gay  look,  for  I  saw  that  he  was  troubled.  'Come/  said 
he  at  once.  As  we  went,  he  saw  my  dogs.  He  stopped 
short  and  shook  a  little,  and  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 
'What  is  it,  Babiche?'  said  I.  He  looked  back  towards 
the  south.  '  My  dogs — Brandy-wine,  Come-along,  'Po- 


204  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

leon,  and  the  rest — died  one  night  all  of  an  hour. 
One  by  one  they  crawl  over  to  where  I  lay  in  my  fur 
bag,  and  die  there,  huddling  by  me — and  such  cries — 
such  cries!  There  was  poison  or  something  in  the  frozen 
fish  I'd  given  them.  I  loved  them  every  one;  and  then 
there  was  the  mails,  the  year's  mails — how  should  they 
be  brought  on?  That  was  a  bad  thought,  for  I  had  never 
missed — never  in  ten  years.  There  was  one  bunch  of 
letters  which  the  governor  said  to  me  was  worth  more 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  mails  put  together,  and  I  was 
to  bring  it  to  Fort  St.  Saviour,  or  not  show  my  face 
to  him  again.  I  leave  the  dogs  there  in  the  snow,  and 
come  on  with  the  sled,  carrying  all  the  mails.  Ah,  the 
blessed  saints,  how  heavy  the  sled  got,  and  how  lonely 
it  was!  Nothing  to  speak  to — no  one,  no  thing,  day 
after  day.  At  last  I  go  to  cry  to  the  dogs,  "Come-along! 
Toleon!  Brandy-wine!" — like  that!  I  think  I  see  them 
there,  but  they  never  bark  and  they  never  snarl,  and 
they  never  spring  to  the  snap  of  the  whip.  ...  I  was 
alone.  Oh,  my  head!  my  head !  If  there  was  only  some- 
thing alive  to  look  at,  besides  the  wide  white  plain,  and 
the  bare  hills  of  ice,  and  the  sun-dogs  in  the  sky!  Now 
I  was  wild,  next  hour  I  was  like  a  child,  then  I  gnash 
my  teeth  like  a  wolf  at  the  sun,  and  at  last  I  got  on  my 
knees.  The  tears  froze  my  eyelids  shut,  but  I  kept  say- 
ing, "Ah,  my  great  Friend,  my  Jesu,  just  something, 
something  with  the  breath  of  life!  Leave  me  not  all 
alone!"  and  I  got  sleepier  all  the  tune. 

"'I  was  sinking,  sinking,  so  quiet  and  easy,  when  all 
at  once  I  felt  something  beside  me;  I  could  hear  it 
breathing,  but  I  could  not  open  my  eyes  at  first,  for,  as 
I  say,  the  lashes  were  froze.  Something  touch  me,  smell 
me,  and  a  nose  was  push  against  my  chest.  I  put  out 
my  hand  ver'  soft  and  touch  it.  I  had  no  fear,  I  was 


LITTLE   BABICHE  205 

so  glad  I  could  have  hug  it,  but  I  did  not — I  drew  back 
my  hand  quiet  and  rub  my  eyes.  In  a  little  I  can  see. 
There  stand  the  thing — a  polar  bear — not  ten  feet 
away,  its  red  eyes  shining.  On  my  knees  I  spoke  to  it, 
talk  to  it,  as  I  would  to  a  man.  It  was  like  a  great  wild 
dog,  fierce,  yet  kind,  and  I  fed  it  with  the  fish  which  had 
been  for  Brandy- wine  and  the  rest — but  not  to  kill  it! 
and  it  did  not  die.  That  night  I  lie  down  in  my  bag — 
no,  I  was  not  afraid!  The  bear  lie  beside  me,  between 
me  and  the  sled.  Ah,  it  was  warm!  Day  after  day  we 
travel  together,  and  camp  together  at  night — ah,  sweet 
Sainte  Anne,  how  good  it  was,  myself  and  the  wild  beast 
such  friends,  alone  in  the  north!  But  to-day — a  little 
while  ago — something  went  wrong  with  me,  and  I  got 
sick  in  the  head,  a  swimming  like  a  tide  wash  in  and 
out.  I  fall  down — asleep.  When  I  wake  I  find  you  here 
beside  me — that  is  all.  The  bear  must  have  drag  me 
here.'" 

Pierre  stuck  a  splinter  into  the  fire  to  light  another 
cigarette,  and  paused  as  if  expecting  the  governor  to 
speak,  but  no  word  coming,  he  continued:  "I  had  my 
arm  around  him  while  we  talked  and  come  slowly  down 
the  hill.  Soon  he  stopped  and  said,  'This  is  the  place/ 
It  was  a  cave  of  ice,  and  we  went  hi.  Nothing  was  there 
to  see  except  the  sled.  Babiche  stopped  short.  It  come 
to  him  now  that  his  good  comrade  was  gone.  He 
turned,  and  looked  out,  and  called,  but  there  was  only 
the  empty  night,  the  ice,  and  the  stars.  Then  he  come 
back,  sat  down  on  the  sled,  and  the  tears  fall.  ...  I  lit 
my  spirit-lamp,  boiled  coffee,  got  pemmican  from  my 
bag,  and  I  tried  to  make  him  eat.  No.  He  would  only 
drink  the  coffee.  At  last  he  said  to  me,  'What  day  is 
this,  Pierre? '  '  It  is  the  day  of  the  Great  Birth,  Babiche,' 
I  said.  He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  was  quiet, 


206  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

so  quiet!  but  he  smile  to  himself,  and  kept  saying  in  a 
whisper :  '  Ma  p'tite  Corinne !  Ma  p'tite  Corinne ! '  The 
next  day  we  come  on  safe,  and  in  a  week  I  was  back  at 
Fort  St.  Saviour  with  Babiche  and  all  the  mails,  and 
that  most  wonderful  letter  of  the  governor's." 

"The  letter  was  to  tell  a  factor  that  his  sick  child 
in  the  hospital  at  Quebec  was  well,"  the  governor 
responded  quietly.  "Who  was  'Ma  p'tite  Corinne/ 
Pierre?" 

"His  wife — hi  heaven;  and  his  child — on  the  Chau- 
diere,  m'sieu'.  The  child  came  and  the  mother  went  on 
the  same  day  of  the  Great  Birth.  He  has  a  soft  heart — 
that  Babiche!" 

"And  the  white  bear— so  strange  a  thing!" 

"M'sieu',  who  can  tell?  The  world  is  young  up  here. 
When  it  was  all  young,  man  and  beast  were  good  com- 
rades, maybe." 

"Ah,  maybe.  What  shall  be  done  with  Little  Ba- 
biche, Pierre?" 

"He  will  never  be  the  same  again  on  the  old  trail, 
m'sieu'!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  long  tune,  but  at  last  the  gov- 
ernor said,  musing,  almost  tenderly,  for  he  never  had  a 
child:  "Ma  p'tite  Corinne! — Little  Babiche  shall  live 
near  his  child,  Pierre.  I  will  see  to  that." 

Pierre  said  no  word,  but  got  up,  took  off  his  hat  to 
the  governor,  and  sat  down  again. 


AT  POINT  O'  BUGLES 

"John  York,  John  York,  where  art  thou  gone,  John 
York?" 

"What's  that,  Pierre?"  said  Sir  Duke  Lawless,  start- 
ing to  his  feet  and  peering  round. 

"Hush!"  was  Pierre's  reply.  "Wait  for  the  rest. 
.  .  .  There!" 

11  King  of  my  heart,  king  of  my  heart,  I  am  out  on  the 
trail  of  thy  bugles" 

Sir  Duke  was  about  to  speak,  but  Pierre  lifted  a  hand 
in  warning,  and  then  through  the  still  night  there  came 
the  long  cry  of  a  bugle,  rising,  falling,  strangely  clear, 
echoing  and  echoing  again,  and  dying  away.  A  mo- 
ment, and  the  call  was  repeated,  with  the  same  effect, 
and  again  a  third  tune;  then  all  was  still,  save  for  the 
flight  of  birds  roused  from  the  desire  of  night,  and  the 
long  breath  of  some  animal  in  the  woods  sinking  back 
to  sleep. 

Their  camp  was  pitched  on  the  south  shore  of  Hud- 
son's Bay,  many  leagues  to  the  west  of  Rupert  House, 
not  far  from  the  Moose  River.  Looking  north  was  the 
wide  expanse  of  the  bay,  dotted  with  sterile  islands  here 
and  there;  to  the  east  were  the  barren  steppes  of  Lab- 
rador, and  all  round  them  the  calm,  incisive  air  of  a  late 
September,  when  winter  begins  to  shake  out  his  frosty 
curtains  and  hang  them  on  the  cornice  of  the  north, 
despite  the  high  protests  of  the  sun.  The  two  adven- 
turers had  come  together  after  years  of  separation,  and 
Sir  Duke  had  urged  Pierre  to  fare  away  with  him  to 

207 


208  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Hudson's  Bay,  which  he  had  never  seen,  although  he  had 
shares  in  the  great  Company,  left  him  by  his  uncle  the 
admiral. 

They  were  camped  in  a  hollow,  to  the  right  a  clump 
of  hardy  trees,  with  no  great  deal  of  foliage,  but  some 
stoutness;  to  the  left  a  long  finger  of  land  running  out 
into  the  water  like  a  wedge,  the  most  eastern  point 
of  the  western  shore  of  Hudson's  Bay.  It  was  high  and 
bold,  and,  somehow,  had  a  fine  dignity  and  beauty. 
From  it  a  path  led  away  north  to  a  great  log-fort  called 
King's  House. 

Lawless  saw  Pierre  half  rise  and  turn  his  head,  lis- 
tening. Presently  he,  too,  heard  the  sound — the  soft 
crash  of  crisp  grass  under  the  feet.  He  raised  himself  to 
a  sitting  posture  and  waited. 

Presently  a  tall  figure  came  out  of  the  dusk  into  the 
light  of  their  fire,  and  a  long  arm  waved  a  greeting  at 
them.  Both  Lawless  and  Pierre  rose  to  their  feet.  The 
stranger  was  dressed  in  buckskin,  he  carried  a  rifle,  and 
around  his  shoulder  was  a  strong  yellow  cord,  from 
which  hung  a  bugle. 

"How  /"he  said,  with  a  nod,  and  drew  near  the  fire, 
stretching  out  his  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"How!"  said  Lawless  and  Pierre. 

After  a  moment  Lawless  drew  from  his  blanket  a 
flask  of  brandy,  and  without  a  word  handed  it  over  the 
fire.  The  fingers  of  the  two  men  met  in  the  flicker  of 
flames,  a  sort  of  bond  by  fire,  and  the  stranger  raised 
the  flask. 

"Chin-chin"  he  said,  and  drank,  breathing  a  long 
sigh  of  satisfaction  afterwards  as  he  handed  it  back; 
but  it  was  Pierre  that  took  it,  and  again  fingers  touched 
in  the  bond  of  fire.  Pierre  passed  the  flask  to  Lawless, 
who  lifted  it. 


AT  POINT  0'  BUGLES  209 

"Chin-chin,"  he  said,  drank,  and  gave  the  flask  to 
Pierre  again,  who  did  as  did  the  others,  and  said  "Chin- 
chin"  also. 

By  that  salutation  of  the  east,  given  in  the  far  north, 
Lawless  knew  that  he  had  met  one  who  had  lighted 
fires  where  men  are  many  and  close  to  the  mile  as  holes 
in  a  sieve. 

They  all  sat  down,  and  tobacco  went  round,  the 
stranger  offering  his,  while  the  two  others,  with  true 
hospitality,  accepted. 

"We  heard  you  over  there — it  was  you?"  said  Law- 
less, nodding  towards  Point  o'  Bugles,  and  glancing  at 
the  bugle  the  other  carried. 

"Yes,  it  was  I,"  was  the  reply.  "Someone  always 
does  it  twice  a  year:  on  the  25th  September  and  the 
25th  March.  I've  done  it  now  without  a  break  for  ten 
years,  until  it  has  got  to  be  a  sort  of  religion  with  me, 
and  the  whole  thing's  as  real  as  if  King  George  and  John 
York  were  talking.  As  I  tramp  to  the  point  or  swing 
away  back,  in  summer  barefooted,  in  winter  on  my  snow- 
shoes,  to  myself  I  seem  to  be  John  York  on  the  trail  of 
the  king's  bugles.  I've  thought  so  much  about  the 
wrhole  thing,  I've  read  so  many  of  John  York's  letters — 
and  how  many  tunes  one  of  the  King's! — that  now  I 
scarcely  know  which  is  the  bare  story,  and  which  the 
bit's  I've  dreamed  as  I've  tramped  over  the  plains  or 
sat  in  the  quiet  at  King's  House,  spelling  out  little  by 
little  the  man's  life,  from  the  cues  I  found  in  his  journal, 
in  the  Company's  papers,  and  in  that  one  letter  of  the 
King's." 

Pierre's  eyes  were  now  more  keen  than  those  of  Law- 
less :  for  years  he  had  known  vaguely  of  this  legend  of 
Point  o'  Bugles. 

"You  know  it  all,"  he  said — "begin  at  the  beginning: 


210  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

how  and  when  you  first  heard,  how  you  got  the  real 
story,  and  never  mind  which  is  taken  from  the  papers 
and  which  from  your  own  mind — if  it  all  fits  in  it  is  all 
true,  for  the  lie  never  fits  in  right  with  the  square  truth. 
If  you  have  the  footprints  and  the  handprints  you  can 
tell  the  whole  man;  if  you  have  the  horns  of  a  deer 
you  know  it  as  if  you  had  killed  it,  skinned  it,  and 
potted  it." 

The  stranger  stretched  himself  before  the  fire,  nod- 
ding at  his  hosts  as  he  did  so,  and  then  began: 

"Well,  a  word  about  myself  first,"  he  said,  "so  you'll 
know  just  where  you  are.  I  was  full  up  of  life  in  Lon- 
don town  and  India,  and  that's  a  fact.  I'd  plenty  of 
friends  and  little  money,  and  my  will  wasn't  equal  to 
the  task  of  keeping  out  of  the  hands  of  the  Jews.  I 
didn't  know  what  to  do,  but  I  had  to  go  somewhere, 
that  was  clear.  Where?  An  accident  decided  it.  I 
came  across  an  old  journal  of  my  great-grandfather, 
John  York, — my  name's  Dick  Adderley, — and  just  as 
if  a  chain  had  been  put  round  my  leg  and  I'd  been  jerked 
over  by  the  tipping  of  the  world,  I  had  to  come  to  Hud- 
son's Bay.  John  York's  journal  was  a  thing  to  sit  up 
nights  to  read.  It  came  back  to  England  after  he'd  had 
his  fill  of  Hudson's  Bay  and  the  earth  beneath,  and  had 
gone,  as  he  himself  said  on  the  last  page  of  the  journal, 
to  follow  the  king's  buglers  in  'the  land  that  is  far  off.' 
God  and  the  devil  were  strong  in  old  John  York.  I 
didn't  lose  much  tune  after  I'd  read  the  journal.  I  went 
to  Hudson's  Bay  house  in  London,  got  a  place  in  the 
Company,  by  the  help  of  the  governor  himself ,  and  came 
out.  I've  learned  the  rest  of  the  history  of  old  John 
York — the  part  that  never  got  to  England;  for  here  at 
King's  House  there's  a  holy  tradition  that  the  real  John 
York  belongs  to  it  and  to  it  alone." 


AT  POINT  0'  BUGLES  211 

Adderley  laughed  a  little.  "  King's  House  guards 
John  York's  memory,  and  it's  as  fresh  and  real  here  now 
as  though  he'd  died  yesterday;  though  it's  forgotten 
in  England,  and  by  most  who  bear  his  name,  and  the 
present  Prince  of  Wales  maybe  never  heard  of  the  man 
who  was  a  close  friend  of  the  Prince  Regent,  the  First 
Gentleman  of  Europe." 

"That  sounds  sweet  gossip,"  said  Lawless,  with  a 
smile;  "we're  waiting." 

Adderley  continued :  "John  York  was  an  honest  man, 
of  wholesome  sport,  jovial,  and  never  shirking  with  the 
wine,  commendable  in  his  appetite,  of  rollicking  soul 
and  proud  temper,  and  a  gay  dog  altogether — gay,  but 
to  be  trusted,  too,  for  he  had  a  royal  heart.  In  the  colt- 
ish days  of  the  Prince  Regent  he  was  a  boon  comrade, 
but  never  did  he  stoop  to  flattery,  nor  would  he  hedge 
when  truth  should  be  spoken,  as  ofttimes  it  was  needed 
with  the  royal  blade,  for  at  times  he  would  forget  that  a 
prince  was  yet  a  man,  topped  with  the  accident  of  a 
crown.  Never  prince  had  truer  friend,  and  so  in  his  best 
hours  he  thought,  himself,  and  if  he  ever  was  just  and 
showed  his  better  part,  it  was  to  the  bold  country  gen- 
tleman who  never  minced  praise  or  blame,  but  said  his 
say  and  devil  take  the  end  of  it.  In  truth,  the  Prince 
was  wilful,  and  once  he  did  a  thing  which  might  have 
given  a  twist  to  the  fate  of  England.  Hot  for  the  love 
of  women,  and  with  some  dash  of  real  romance  in  him 
too, — else  even  as  a  prince  he  might  have  had  shallower 
love  and  service, — he  called  John  York  one  day  and  said : 

"'To-night  at  seven,  Squire  John,  you'll  stand  with 
me  while  I  put  the  seal  on  the  Gates  of  Eden;'  and, 
when  the  other  did  not  guess  his  import,  added:  'Sir 
Mark  Selby  is  your  neighbour — his  daughter's  for  my 
arms  to-night.  You  know  her,  handsome  Sally  Selby — 
she's  for  your  prince,  for  good  or  ill.' 


212  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"John  York  did  not  understand  at  first,  for  he  could 
not  think  the  Prince  had  anything  in  mind  but  some  hot 
escapade  of  love.  When  Mistress  Selby's  name  was 
mentioned  his  heart  stood  still,  for  she  had  been  his 
choice,  the  dear  apple  of  his  eye,  since  she  had  bloomed 
towards  womanhood.  He  had  set  all  his  hopes  upon  her, 
tarrying  till  she  should  have  seen  some  little  life  before 
he  asked  her  for  his  wife.  He  had  her  father's  God- 
speed to  his  wooing,  for  he  was  a  man  whom  all  men 
knew  honest  and  generous  as  the  sun,  and  only  choleric 
with  the  mean  thing.  She,  also,  had  given  him  good 
cause  to  think  that  he  should  one  day  take  her  to  his 
home,  a  loved  and  honoured  wife.  His  impulse,  when 
her  name  passed  the  Prince's  lips,  was  to  draw  his  sword, 
for  he  would  have  called  an  emperor  to  account;  but 
presently  he  saw  the  real  meaning  of  the  speech:  that 
the  Prince  would  marry  her  that  night." 

Here  the  story-teller  paused  again,  and  Pierre  said 
softly,  inquiringly: 

"You  began  to  speak  in  your  own  way,  and  you've 
come  to  another  way — like  going  from  an  almanac  to 
the  Mass." 

The  other  smiled.  "That's  so.  I've  heard  it  told 
by  old  Shearton  at  King's  House,  who  speaks  as  if  he'd 
stepped  out  of  Shakespeare,  and  somehow  I  seem  to 
hear  him  talking,  and  I  tell  it  as  he  told  it  last  year  to 
the  governor  of  the  Company.  Besides,  I've  listened 
these  seven  years  to  his  style." 

"It's  a  strange  beginning — unwritten  history  of  Eng- 
land," said  Sir  Duke  musingly. 

"You  shall  hear  stranger  things  yet,"  answered  Ad- 
derley.  "John  York  could  hardly  believe  it  at  first,  for 
the  thought  of  such  a  thing  never  had  place  in  his  mind. 
Besides,  the  Prince  knew  how  he  had  looked  upon  the 
lady,  and  he  could  not  have  thought  his  comrade  would 


AT  POINT  0'   BUGLES  213 

come  in  between  him  and  his  happiness.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  difficulty,  adding  spice  to  the  affair,  that  sent  the 
Prince  to  the  appeal  of  private  marriage  to  win  the  lady, 
and  John  York  always  held  that  he  loved  her  truly  then, 
the  first  and  only  real  affection  of  his  life.  The  lady — 
who  can  tell  what  won  her  over  from  the  honest  gentle- 
man to  the  faithless  prince?  That  soul  of  vanity  which 
wraps  about  the  real  soul  of  every  woman  fell  down  at 
last  before  the  highest  office  in  the  land,  and  the  gifted 
bearer  of  the  office.  But  the  noble  spirit  in  her  brought 
him  to  offer  marriage,  when  he  might  otherwise  have 
offered,  say,  a  barony.  There  is  a  record  of  that  and 
more  in  John  York's  Memoirs  which  I  will  tell  you,  for 
they  have  settled  hi  my  mind  like  an  old  song,  and  I 
learned  them  long  ago.  I  give  you  John  York's  words 
written  by  his  own  hands: 

"'I  did  not  think  when  I  beheld  thee  last,  dearest 
flower  of  the  world's  garden,  that  I  should  see  thee 
bloom  in  that  wide  field,  rank  with  the  sorrows  of  royal 
favour.  How  did  my  foolish  eyes  fill  with  tears  when  I 
watched  thee,  all  rose  and  gold  in  thy  cheeks  and  hair, 
the  light  falling  on  thee  through  the  chapel  window,  put- 
ting thy  pure  palm  into  my  prince's,  swearing  thy  life 
away,  selling  the  very  blossoms  of  earth's  orchards  for 
the  brier  beauty  of  a  hidden  vineyard!  I  saw  the  fly- 
ing glories  of  thy  cheeks,  the  halcyon  weather  of  thy 
smile,  the  delicate  lifting  of  thy  bosom,  the  dear  gaiety 
of  thy  step,  and,  at  that  moment,  I  mourned  for  thy 
sake  that  thou  wert  not  the  dullest  wench  in  the  land, 
for  then  thou  hadst  been  spared  thy  miseries,  thou 
hadst  been  saved  the  torture-boot  of  a  lost  love  and  a 
disacknowledged  wifedom.  Yet  I  could  not  hide  from 
me  that  thou  wert  happy  at  that  great  moment,  when 
he  swore  to  love  and  cherish  thee,  till  death  you  parted. 


214  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Ah,  George,  my  prince,  my  king,  how  wickedly  thou 
didst  break  thy  vows  with  both  of  us  who  loved  thee 
well,  through  good  and  ill  report — for  they  spake  evil 
of  thee,  George;  ay,  the  meanest  of  thy  subjects  spake 
lightly  of  their  king — when  with  that  sweet  soul  secretly 
hid  away  in  the  farthest  corner  of  thy  kingdom,  thou 
soughtst  divorce  from  thy  later  Caroline,  whom  thou, 
unfaithful,  didst  charge  with  infidelity.  When,  at  last, 
thou  didst  turn  again  to  the  partner  of  thy  youth,  thy 
true  wife  in  the  eyes  of  God,  it  was  too  late.  Thou  didst 
promise  me  that  thou  wouldst  never  take  another  wife, 
never  put  our  dear  heart  away,  though  she  could  not- 
after  our  miserable  laws — bear  thee  princes.  Thou 
didst  break  thy  promise,  yet  she  forgave  thee,  and  I 
forgave  thee,  for  well  we  knew  that  thou  wouldst  pay 
a  heavy  reckoning,  and  that  in  the  hour  when  thou 
shouldst  cry  to  us  we  might  not  come  to  thee;  that  in 
the  days  when  age  and  sorrow  and  vast  troubles  should 
oppress  thee,  thou  wouldst  long  for  the  true  hearts  who 
loved  thee  for  thyself  and  not  for  aught  thou  couldst 
give,  or  aught  that  thou  wert,  save  as  a  man. 

"'When  thou  didst  proclaim  thy  purpose  to  take 
Caroline  to  wife,  I  pleaded  with  thee,  I  was  wroth  with 
thee.  Thy  one  plea  was  succession.  Succession!  Suc- 
cession! What  were  a  hundred  dynasties  beside  that 
precious  life,  eaten  by  shame  and  sorrow?  It  were  easy 
for  others,  not  thy  children,  to  come  after  thee,  to  rule 
as  well  as  thee,  as  must  even  now  be  the  case,  for  thou 
hast  no  lawful  child  save  that  one  in  the  loneliest  corner 
of  thy  English  vineyard — alack!  alack!  I  warned  thee 
George,  I  pleaded,  and  thou  didst  drive  me  out  with 
words  ill-suited  to  thy  friend  who  loved  thee. 

' '  I  did  not  fear  thee,  I  would  have  forced  thee  to  thy 
knees  or  made  thee  fight  me,  had  not  some  good  spirit 


AT  POINT  0'  BUGLES  215 

cried  to  my  heart  that  thou  wert  her  husband,  and  that 
we  both  had  loved  thee.  I  dared  not  listen  to  the  brutal 
thing  thou  hintedst  at — that  now  I  might  fatten  where 
I  had  hungered.  Thou  hadst  to  answer  for  the  baseness 
of  that  thought  to  the  King  of  kings,  when  thou  wentest 
forth  alone,  no  subject,  courtier,  friend,  wife,  or  child  to 
do  thee  service,  journeying — not  en  prince,  George;  no, 
not  en  prince !  but  as  a  naked  soul  to  God. 

"'Thou  saidst  to  me:  "Get  thee  gone,  John  York, 
where  I  shall  no  more  see  thee."  And  when  I  returned, 
"Wouldst  thou  have  me  leave  thy  country,  sir?" 
thou  answeredst:  "Blow  thy  quarrelsome  soul  to  the 
stars  where  my  farthest  bugle  cries."  Then  I  said:  "I 
go,  sir,  till  thou  callest  me  again — and  after;  but  not 
till  thou  hast  honoured  the  child  of  thy  honest  wedlock; 
till  thou  hast  secured  thy  wife  to  the  end  of  her  life 
against  all  manner  of  trouble  save  the  shame  of  thy  dis- 
loyalty." There  was  no  more  for  me  to  do,  for  my  deep 
love  itself  forbade  my  staying  longer  within  reach  of  the 
noble  deserted  soul.  And  so  I  saw  the  chastened  glory 
of  her  face  no  more,  nor  evermore  beheld  her  perfect- 


ness." 


Adderley  paused  once  more,  and,  after  refilling  his 
pipe  in  silence,  continued: 

"That  was  the  heart  of  the  thing.  His  soul  sickened 
of  the  rank  world,  as  he  called  it,  and  he  came  out  to  the 
Hudson's  Bay  country,  leaving  his  estates  in  care  of  his 
nephew,  but  taking  many  stores  and  great  chests  of 
clothes  and  a  shipload  of  furniture,  instruments  of 
music,  more  than  a  thousand  books,  some  good  pic- 
tures, and  great  stores  of  wine.  Here  he  came  and 
stayed,  an  officer  of  the  Company,  building  King's 
House,  and  filling  it  with  all  the  fine  things  he  had 
brought  with  him,  making  hi  this  far  north  a  little  palace 


216  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

in  the  wilderness.  Here  he  lived,  his  great  heart  grow- 
ing greater  in  this  wide  sinewy  world,  King's  House  a 
place  of  pilgrimage  for  all  the  Company's  men  in  the 
north;  a  noble  gentleman  in  a  sweet  exile,  loving  what 
he  could  no  more,  what  he  did  no  more,  see. 

"Twice  a  year  he  went  to  that  point  yonder  and 
blew  this  bugle,  no  man  knew  why  or  wherefore,  year 
in,  year  out,  till  1817.  Then  there  came  a  letter  to  him 
with  great  seals,  which  began:  'John  York,  John  York, 
where  art  thou  gone,  John  York?'  There  followed  a 
score  of  sorrowful  sentences,  full  of  petulance,  too,  for 
it  was  as  John  York  foretold,  his  prince  longed  for  the 
true  souls  whom  he  had  cast  off.  But  he  called  too  late, 
for  the  neglected  wife  died  from  the  shock  of  her  prince's 
longing  message  to  her,  and  when,  by  the  same  mail, 
John  York  knew  that,  he  would  not  go  back  to  England 
to  the  King.  But  twice  every  year  he  went  to  yonder 
point  and  spoke  out  the  King's  words  to  him:  'John 
York,  John  York,  where  art  thou  gone,  John  York? '  and 
gave  the  words  of  his  own  letter  in  reply:  'King  of  my 
heart,  king  of  my  heart,  I  am  out  on  the  trail  of  thy 
bugles.'  To  this  he  added  three  calls  of  the  bugle,  as 
you  have  heard." 

Adderley  handed  the  bugle  to  Lawless,  who  looked 
at  it  with  deep  interest  and  passed  it  on  to  Pierre. 

"When  he  died,"  Adderley  continued,  "he  left  the 
house,  the  fittings,  and  the  stores  to  the  officers  of  the 
Company  who  should  be  stationed  there,  with  a  sum 
of  money  yearly,  provided  that  twice  in  twelve  months 
the  bugle  should  be  blown  as  you  have  heard  it,  and 
those  words  called  out." 

"Why  did  he  do  that?"  asked  Lawless,  nodding 
towards  the  point. 

"Why  do  they  swing  the  censers  at  the  Mass?"  inter- 


AT  POINT  O'  BUGLES  217 

jected  Pierre.  "Man  has  signs  for  memories,  and  one 
man  seeing  another's  sign  will  remember  his  own." 

"You  stay  because  you  like  it — at  King's  House?" 
asked  Lawless  of  Adderley. 

The  other  stretched  himself  lazily  to  the  fire  and,  "I 
am  at  home,"  he  said.  "I  have  no  cares.  I  had  all 
there  was  of  that  other  world;  I've  not  had  enough  of 
this.  You'll  come  with  me  to  King's  House  to-mor- 
row?" he  added. 

To  their  quick  assent  he  rejoined:  "You'll  never 
want  to  leave.  You'll  stay  on." 

To  this  Lawless  replied,  shaking  his  head:  "I  have  a 
wife  and  child  in  England." 

But  Pierre  did  not  reply.  He  lifted  the  bugle,  mutely 
asking  a  question  of  Adderley,  who  as  mutely  replied, 
and  then,  with  it  in  his  hand,  left  the  other  two  beside 
the  fire. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  heard,  with  three  calls  of 
the  bugle  from  the  point  afterwards,  Pierre's  voice: 

"John  York,  John  York,  where  art  thou  gone,  John 
York?" 

Then  came  the  reply: 

"King  of  my  heart,  king  of  my  heart,  I  am  out  on  the 
trail  of  thy  bugles." 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA 

JUST  at  the  point  where  the  Peace  River  first  hugs  the 
vast  outpost  hills  of  the  Rockies,  before  it  hurries  tim- 
orously on,  through  an  unexplored  region,  to  Fort  St. 
John,  there  stood  a  hut.  It  faced  the  west,  and  was 
built  half-way  up  Clear  Mountain.  In  winter  it  had 
snows  above  it  and  below  it;  hi  summer  it  had  snow 
above  it  and  a  very  fair  stretch  of  trees  and  grass,  while 
the  river  flowed  on  the  same,  winter  and  summer.  It 
was  a  lonely  country.  Travelling  north,  you  would  have 
come  to  the  Turnagain  River;  west,  to  the  Frying  Pan 
Mountains;  south,  to  a  goodly  land.  But  from  the  hut 
you  had  no  outlook  towards  the  south;  your  eye  came 
plump  against  a  hard  lofty  hill,  like  a  wall  between 
heaven  and  earth.  It  is  strange,  too,  that,  when  you 
are  in  the  far  north,  you  do  not  look  towards  the  south 
until  the  north  turns  an  iron  hand  upon  you  and  refuses 
the  hospitality  of  food  and  fire;  your  eyes  are  drawn 
towards  the  Pole  by  that  charm — deadly  and  beautiful 
— for  which  men  have  given  up  three  points  of  the  com- 
pass, with  their  pleasures  and  ease,  to  seek  a  grave  soli- 
tude, broken  only  by  the  beat  of  a  musk-ox's  hoofs,  the 
long  breath  of  the  caribou,  or  the  wild  cry  of  the  puma. 
Sir  Duke  Lawless  had  felt  this  charm,  and  had  sworn 
that  one  day  he  would  again  leave  his  home  in  Devon 
and  his  house  in  Pont  Street,  and,  finding  Pierre,  Shon 
M'Gann,  and  others  of  his  old  comrades,  together  they 
would  travel  into  those  austere  yet  pleasant  wilds.  He 
kept  his  word,  found  Shon  M'Gann,  and  on  an  autumn 
day  of  a  year  not  so  long  ago  lounged  in  this  hut  on 

218 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  219 

Clear  Mountain.  They  had  had  three  months  of  travel 
and  sport,  and  were  filled,  but  not  sated,  with  the  joy 
of  the  hunter.  They  were  very  comfortable,  for  their 
host,  Pourcette,  the  French  Canadian,  had  fire  and  meat 
in  plenty,  and,  if  silent,  was  attentive  to  their  comfort 
— a  little,  black-bearded,  grey-headed  man,  with  heavy 
brows  over  small  vigilant  eyes,  deft  with  his  fingers,  and 
an  excellent  sportsman,  as  could  be  told  from  the  skins 
heaped  in  all  the  corners  of  the  large  hut. 

The  skins  were  not  those  of  mere  foxes  or  martens 
or  deer,  but  of  mountain  lions  and  grizzlies.  There  were 
besides  many  soft,  tiger-like  skins,  which  Sir  Duke  did 
not  recognise.  He  kept  looking  at  them,  and  at  last 
went  over  and  examined  one. 

"What's  this,  Monsieur  Pourcette?"  he  said,  feeling 
it  as  it  lay  on  the  top  of  the  pile. 

The  little  man  pushed  the  log  on  the  fireplace  with 
his  moccasined  foot  before  he  replied:  "Of  a  puma, 
m'sieu'." 

Sir  Duke  smoothed  it  with  his  hand.  "I  didn't  know 
there  were  pumas  here." 

"Faith,  Sir  Duke—" 

Sir  Duke  Lawless  turned  on  Shon  quickly.  "You're 
forgetting  again,  Shon.  There's  no  '  Sir  Dukes '  between 
us.  What  you  were  to  me  years  ago  on  the  wallyby- 
track  and  the  buffalo-trail,  you  are  now,,  and  I'm  the 
same  also:  M'Gann  and  Lawless,  and  no  other." 

"Well,  then,  Lawless,  it's  true  enough  as  he  says  it, 
for  I've  seen  more  than  wan  skin  brought  in,  though  I 
niver  clapped  eye  on  the  beast  alive.  There's  few  men 
go  huntin'  them  av  their  own  free  will,  not  more  than 
they  do  grizzlies;  but,  bedad,  this  Frinch  gintleman  has 
either  the  luck  o'  the  world,  or  the  gift  o'  that  man  ye 
tould  me  of,  that  slew  the  wild  boars  in  anciency.  Look 


220  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

at  that,  now:  there's  thirty  or  forty  puma-skins,  and 
I'd  take  my  oath  there  isn't  another  man  in  the  country 
that's  shot  half  that  in  his  lifetime." 

Pourcette's  eyes  were  on  the  skins,  not  on  the  men, 
and  he  did  not  appear  to  listen.  He  sat  leaning  for- 
ward, with  a  strange  look  on  his  face.  Presently  he  got 
up,  came  over,  and  stroked  the  skins  softly.  A  queer 
chuckling  noise  came  from  his  throat. 

"It  was  good  sport?"  asked  Lawless,  feeling  a  new 
interest  in  him. 

"The  grandest  sport — but  it  is  not  so  easy,"  answered 
the  old  man.  "The  grizzly  comes  on  you  bold  and 
strong;  you  know  your  danger  right  away,  and  have  it 
out.  So.  But  the  puma  comes — God,  how  the  puma 
comes ! "  He  broke  off,  his  eyes  burning  bright  under  his 
bushy  brows  and  his  body  arranging  itself  into  an  atti- 
tude of  expectation  and  alertness. 

"You  have  travelled  far.  The  sun  goes  down.  You 
build  a  fire  and  cook  your  meat,  and  then  good  tea  and 
the  tabac.  It  is  ver'  fine.  You  hear  the  loon  crying  on 
the  water,  or  the  last  whistle  of  the  heron  up  the  pass. 
The  lights  in  the  sky  come  out  and  shine  through  a  thin 
mist — there  is  nothing  like  that  mist,  it  is  so  fine  and 
soft.  Allans.  You  are  sleepy.  You  bless  the  good  God. 
You  stretch  pine  branches,  wrap  in  your  blanket,  and 
lie  down  to  sleep.  If  it  is  winter  and  you  have  a  friend, 
you  lie  close.  It  is  all  quiet.  As  you  sleep,  something 
comes.  It  slides  along  the  ground  on  its  belly,  like  a 
snake.  It  is  a  pity  if  you  have  not  ears  that  feel — the 
whole  body  as  ears.  For  there  is  a  swift  lunge,  a  snarl — 
ah,  you  should  hear  it!  the  thing  has  you  by  the  throat, 
and  there  is  an  end!" 

The  old  man  had  acted  all  the  scenes:  a  sidelong 
glance,  a  little  gesture,  a  movement  of  the  body,  a 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  221 

quick,  harsh  breath — without  emphatic  excitement,  yet 
with  a  reality  and  force  that  fascinated  his  two  listeners. 
When  he  paused,  Shon  let  go  a  long  breath,  and  Lawless 
looked  with  keen  inquiry  at  their  entertainer.  This 
almost  unnatural,  yet  quiet,  intensity  had  behind  it 
something  besides  the  mere  spirit  of  the  sportsman. 
Such  exhibitions  of  feeling  generally  have  an  unusual 
personal  interest  to  give  them  point  and  meaning. 

"Yes,  that's  wonderful,  Pourcette,"  he  said;  "but 
that's  when  the  puma  has  things  its  own  way.  How  is 
it  when  these  come  off?  "  He  stroked  the  soft  furs  under 
his  hand. 

The  man  laughed,  yet  without  a  sound — the  inward, 
stealthy  laugh,  as  from  a  knowledge  wicked  in  its  very 
suggestiveness.  His  eyes  ran  from  Lawless  to  Shon,  and 
back  again.  He  put  his  hand  on  his  mouth,  as  though 
for  silence,  stole  noiselessly  over  to  the  wall,  took  down 
his  gun  quietly,  and  turned  round.  Then  he  spoke 
softly : 

"To  kill  the  puma,  you  must  watch — always  watch. 
You  will  see  his  yellow  eyes  sometimes  in  a  tree:  you 
must  be  ready  before  he  springs.  You  will  hear  his 
breath  at  night  as  you  pretend  to  sleep,  and  you  wait 
till  you  see  his  foot  steal  out  of  the  shadow — then  you 
have  him.  From  a  mountain  wall  you  watch  in  the 
morning,  and,  when  you  see  him,  you  follow,  and  follow, 
and  do  not  rest  till  you  have  found  him.  You  must 
never  miss  fire,  for  he  has  great  strength  and  a  mad 
tooth.  But  when  you  have  got  him,  he  is  worth  all. 
You  cannot  eat  the  grizzly — he  is  too  thick  and  coarse; 
but  the  puma — well,  you  had  him  from  the  pot  to-night. 
Was  he  not  good?" 

Lawless's  brows  ran  up  in  surprise.  Shon  spoke 
quickly: 


222  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"Heaven  above!"  he  burst  out.  "Was  it  puma  we 
had  betune  the  teeth?  And  what's  puma  but  an  al- 
mighty cat?  Sure,  though,  it  wint  as  tinder  as  pullets, 
for  all  that — but  I  wish  you  hadn't  tould  us." 

The  old  man  stood  leaning  on  his  gun,  his  chin  on  his 
hands,  as  they  covered  the  muzzle,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
something  in  his  memory,  the  vision  of  incidents  he 
had  lived  or  seen. 

Lawless  went  over  to  the  fire  and  relit  his  pipe.  Shon 
followed  him.  They  both  watched  Pourcette. 

"D'ye  think  he's  mad?"  asked  Shon  in  a  whisper. 

Lawless  shook  his  head:  "Mad?  No.  But  there's 
more  in  this  puma-hunting  than  appears.  How  long 
has  he  lived  here,  did  he  say?" 

"Four  years;  and,  durin'  that  tune,  yours  and  mine 
are  the  only  white  faces  he  has  seen,  except  one." 

"Except  one.  Well,  whose  was  the  one?  That  might 
be  interesting.  Maybe  there's  a  story  in  that." 

"Faith,  Lawless,  there's  a  story  worth  the  hearin', 
I'm  thinkin',  to  every  white  man  in  this  country.  For 
the  three  years  I  was  in  the  mounted  police,  I  could 
count  a  story  for  all  the  days  o'  the  calendar — and  not 
all  o'  them  would  make  you  happy  to  hear." 

Pourcette  turned  round  to  them.  He  seemed  to  be 
listening  to  Shon's  words.  Going  to  the  wall,  he  hung 
up  the  rifle;  then  he  came  to  the  fire  and  stood  holding 
out  his  hands  to  the  blaze.  He  did  not  look  in  the  least 
mad,  but  like  a  man  who  was  dominated  by  some  one 
thought,  more  or  less  weird.  Short  and  slight,  and  a 
little  bent,  but  more  from  habit — the  habit  of  listening 
and  watching — than  from  age,  his  face  had  a  stern  kind 
of  earnestness  and  loneliness,  and  nothing  at  all  of  in- 
sanity. 

Presently  Lawless  went  to  a  corner,  and  from  his 


THE   SPOIL  OF  THE   PUMA  223 

kit  drew  forth  a  flask.  The  old  man  saw,  and  imme- 
diately brought  out  a  wooden  cup.  There  were  two  on 
the  shelf,  and  Shon  pointed  to  the  other.  Pourcette 
took  no  notice.  Shon  went  over  to  get  it,  but  Pour- 
cette laid  a  hand  on  his  arm:  "Not  that." 

"For  ornamint!"  said  Shon,  laughing,  and  then  his 
eyes  were  arrested  by  a  suit  of  buckskin  and  a  cap  of 
beaver,  hanging  on  the  wall.  He  turned  them  over,  and 
then  suddenly  drew  back  his  hand,  for  he  saw  in  the 
back  of  the  jacket  a  knife-slit.  There  was  blood  also  on 
the  buckskin. 

"Holy  Mary!"  he  said,  and  retreated.  Lawless  had 
not  noticed;  he  was  pouring  out  the  liquor.  He  had 
handed  the  cup  first  to  Pourcette,  who  raised  it  towards 
a  gun  hung  above  the  fireplace,  and  said  something 
under  his  breath. 

"A  dramatic  little  fellow,"  thought  Lawless;  "the 
spirit  of  his  forefathers — a  good  deal  of  heart,  a  little 
of  the  poseur." 

Then  hearing  Shon's  exclamation,  he  turned. 

"It's  an  ugly  sight,"  said  Shon,  pointing  to  the  jacket. 
They  both  looked  at  Pourcette,  expecting  him  to  speak. 
The  old  man  reached  to  the  coat,  and,  turning  it  so  that 
the  cut  and  the  blood  were  hid,  ran  his  hand  down  it 
caressingly.  "Ah,  poor  Jo!  poor  Jo  Gordineer!"  he 
said ;  then  he  came  over  once  more  to  the  fire,  sat  down, 
and  held  out  his  hands  to  the  fire,  shaking  his  head. 

"For  God's  sake,  Lawless,  give  me  a  drink!"  said 
Shon.  Their  eyes  met,  and  there  was  the  same  look  in 
the  faces  of  both.  When  Shon  had  drunk,  he  said: 
"So,  that's  what's  come  to  our  old  friend,  Jo:  dead — 
killed  or  murdered— 

"Don't  speak  so  loud,"  said  Lawless.  "Let  us  get 
the  story  from  him  first." 


224  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Years  before,  when  Shon  M'Gann  and  Pierre  and 
Lawless  had  sojourned  in  the  Pipi  Valley,  Jo  Gordi- 
neer  had  been  with  them,  as  stupid  and  true  a  man  as 
ever  drew  in  his  buckle  in  a  hungry  land,  or  let  it  out  to 
munch  corn  and  oil.  When  Lawless  returned  to  find 
Shon  and  others  of  his  companions,  he  had  asked  for 
Gordineer.  But  not  Shon  nor  anyone  else  could  tell 
aught  of  him;  he  had  wandered  north  to  outlying  gold- 
fields,  and  then  had  disappeared  completely.  But 
there,  as  it  would  seem,  his  coat  and  cap  hung,  and 
his  rifle,  dust-covered,  kept  guard  over  the  fire. 

Shon  went  over  to  the  coat,  did  as  Pourcette  had  done, 
and  said:  "Is  it  gone  y'are,  Jo,  wid  your  slow  tongue 
and  your  big  heart?  Wan  by  wan  the  lads  are  off." 

Pourcette,  without  any  warning,  began  speaking,  but 
in  a  very  quiet  tone  at  first,  as  if  unconscious  of  the 
others: 

"Poor  Jo  Gordineer!  Yes,  he  is  gone.  He  was  my 
friend — so  tall,  and  such  a  hunter!  We  were  at  the  Ding- 
Dong  goldfields  together.  When  luck  went  bad,  I  said 
to  him:  'Come,  we  will  go  where  there  is  plenty  of  wild 
meat,  and  a  summer  more  beautiful  than  in  the  south.' 
I  did  not  want  to  part  from  him,  for  once,  when  some 
miner  stole  my  claim,  and  I  fought,  he  stood  by  me. 
But  in  some  things  he  was  a  little  child.  That  was  from 
his  big  heart.  Well,  he  would  go,  he  said;  and  we  came 
away." 

He  suddenly  became  silent;  and  shook  his  head,  and 
spoke  under  his  breath. 

' '  Yes, ' '  said  Lawless  quietly, ' '  you  went  away.  What 
then?" 

He  looked  up  quickly,  as  though  just  aware  of  their 
presence,  and  continued: 

"Well,  the  other  followed,  as  I  said,  and — " 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  225 

"No,  Pourcette,"  interposed  Lawless,  "you  didn't 
say.  Who  was  the  other  that  followed?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  gravely,  and  a  little 
severely,  and  continued: 

"As  I  said,  Gawdor  followed — he  and  an  Indian. 
Gawdor  thought  we  were  going  for  gold,  because  I  had 
said  I  knew  a  place  in  the  north  where  there  was  gold 
in  a  river — I  know  the  place,  but  that  is  no  matter.  We 
did  not  go  for  gold  just  then.  Gawdor  hated  Jo  Gordi- 
neer.  There  was  a  half-breed  girl.  She  was  fine  to  look 
at.  She  would  have  gone  to  Gordineer  if  he  had  beck- 
oned, any  time;  but  he  waited — he  was  very  slow, 
except  with  his  finger  on  a  gun;  he  waited  too  long. 
Gawdor  was  mad  for  the  girl.  He  knew  why  her  feet 
came  slow  to  the  door  when  he  knocked.  He  would 
have  quarrelled  with  Jo,  if  he  had  dared;  Gordineer 
was  too  quick  a  shot.  He  would  have  killed  him  from 
behind;  but  it  was  known  in  the  camp  that  he  was  no 
friend  of  Gordineer,  and  it  was  not  safe." 

Again  Pourcette  was  silent.  Lawless  put  on  his  knee 
a  new  pipe,  filled  with  tobacco.  The  little  man  took  it, 
lighted  it,  and  smoked  on  in  silence  for  a  tune  undis- 
turbed. Shon  broke  the  silence,  by  a  whisper  to  Lawless : 

"Jo  was  a  quiet  man,  as  patient  as  a  priest;  but  when 
his  blood  came  up,  there  was  trouble  in  the  land.  Do 
you  remimber  whin — 

Lawless  interrupted  him  and  motioned  towards  Pour- 
cette. The  old  man,  after  a  few  puffs,  held  the  pipe  on 
his  knee,  disregarding  it.  Lawless  silently  offered  him 
some  more  whisky,  but  he  shook  his  head.  Presently, 
he  again  took  up  the  thread: 

"Bien,  we  travelled  slow  up  through  the  smoky  river 
country,  and  beyond  into  a  wild  land.  We  had  bully 
sport  as  we  went.  Sometimes  I  heard  shots  far  away 


226  A  ROMANY  OF  THE   SNOWS 

behind  us;  but  Gordineer  said  it  was  my  guess,  for  we 
saw  nobody.  But  I  had  a  feeling.  Never  mind.  At 
last  we  come  to  the  Peace  River.  It  was  in  the  early 
autumn  like  this,  when  the  land  is  full  of  comfort.  What 
is  there  like  it?  Nothing.  The  mountains  have  colours 
like  a  girl's  eyes;  the  smell  of  the  trees  is  sweet  like  a 
child's  breath,  and  the  grass  feels  for  the  foot  and  lifts 
it  with  a  little  soft  spring.  We  said  we  could  live  here 
for  ever.  We  built  this  house  high  up,  as  you  see,  first, 
because  it  is  good  to  live  high — it  puts  life  in  the  blood; 
and,  as  Gordineer  said,  it  is  noble  to  look  far  over  the 
world,  every  time  your  house-door  is  open,  or  the  parch- 
ment is  down  from  the  window.  We  killed  wapiti  and 
caribou  without  number,  and  cached  them  for  our  food. 
We  caught  fish  in  the  river,  and  made  tea  out  of  the 
brown  berry — it  is  very  good.  We  had  flour,  a  little, 
which  we  had  brought  with  us,  and  I  went  to  Fort  St. 
John  and  got  more.  Since  then,  down  in  the  valley,  I 
have  wheat  every  summer;  for  the  Chinook  winds  blow 
across  the  mountains  and  soften  the  bitter  cold. 

"Well,  for  that  journey  to  Fort  St.  John.  When  I 
got  back  I  found  Gawdor  with  Gordineer.  He  said  he 
had  come  north  to  hunt.  His  Indian  had  left,  and  he 
had  lost  his  way.  Gordineer  believed  him.  He  never 
lied  himself.  I  said  nothing,  but  watched.  After  a 
time  he  asked  where  the  gold-field  was.  I  told  him,  and 
he  started  away — it  was  about  fifty  miles  to  the  north. 
He  went,  and  on  his  way  back  he  come  here.  He  say 
he  could  not  find  the  place,  and  was  going  south.  I 
know  he  lied.  At  this  time  I  saw  that  Gordineer  was 
changed.  He  was  slow  in  the  head,  and  so,  when  he 
began  thinking  up  here,  it  made  him  lonely.  It  is 
always  in  a  fine  land  like  this,  where  game  is  plenty, 
and  the  heart  dances  for  joy  in  your  throat,  and  you  sit 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  227 

by  the  fire — that  you  think  of  some  woman  who  would 
be  glad  to  draw  in  and  tie  the  strings  of  the  tent-curtain, 
or  fasten  the  latch  of  the  door  upon  you  two  alone." 

Perhaps  some  memory  stirred  within  the  old  man, 
other  than  that  of  his  dead  comrade,  for  he  sighed, 
muffled  his  mouth  in  his  beard,  and  then  smiled  in  a 
distant  way  at  the  fire.  The  pure  truth  of  what  he  said 
came  home  to  Shon  M'Gann  and  Sir  Duke  Lawless; 
for  both,  in  days  gone  by,  had  sat  at  camp-fires  in  silent 
plains,  and  thought  upon  women  from  whom  they  be- 
lieved they  were  parted  for  ever,  yet  who  were  only  kept 
from  them  for  a  time,  to  give  them  happier  days.  They 
were  thinking  of  these  two  women  now.  They  scarcely 
knew  how  long  they  sat  there  thinking.  Time  passes 
swiftly  when  thoughts  are  cheerful,  or  are  only  tinged 
with  the  soft  melancholy  of  a  brief  separation.  Mem- 
ory is  man's  greatest  friend  and  worst  enemy. 

At  last  the  old  man  continued:  "I  saw  the  thing  grew 
on  him.  He  was  not  sulky,  but  he  stare  much  in  the 
fire  at  night.  In  the  day  tune  he  was  differen'.  A 
hunter  thinks  only  of  his  sport.  Gawdor  watched  him. 
Gordineer's  hand  was  steady;  his  nerve  was  all  right. 
I  have  seen  him  stand  still  till  a  grizzly  come  within 
twice  the  length  of  his  gun.  Then  he  would  twist  his 
mouth,  and  fire  into  the  mortal  spot.  Once  we  were  out 
in  the  Wide  Wing  pass.  We  had  never  had  such  a  day. 
Gordineer  make  grand  shots,  better  than  my  own;  and 
men  have  said  I  can  shoot  like  the  devil — ha!  ha!" 
He  chuckled  to  himself  noiselessly,  and  said  in  a  whisper : 
"Twenty  grizzlies,  and  fifty  pumas!" 

Then  he  rubbed  his  hands  softly  on  his  knees,  and 
spoke  aloud  again:  "Id,  I  was  proud  of  him.  We  were 
standing  together  on  a  ledge  of  rock.  Gawdor  was  not 
far  away.  Gawdor  was  a  poor  hunter,  and  I  knew  he 


228  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

was  wild  at  Gordineer's  great  luck.  ...  A  splendid 
bull-wapiti  come  out  on  a  rock  across  the  gully.  It  was 
a  long  shot.  I  did  not  think  Gordineer  could  make  it; 
I  was  not  sure  that  I  could — the  wind  was  blowing  and 
the  range  was  long.  But  he  draw  up  his  gun  like  light- 
ning, and  fire  all  at  once.  The  bull  dropped  clean  over 
the  cliff,  and  tumbled  dead  upon  the  rocks  below.  It 
was  fine.  But,  then,  Gordineer  slung  his  gun  under  his 
arm,  and  say:  'That  is  enough.  I  am  going  to  the  hut.' 

"He  went  away.  That  night  he  did  not  talk.  The 
next  morning,  when  I  say,  'We  will  be  off  again  to  the 
pass,'  he  shake  his  head.  He  would  not  go.  He  would 
shoot  no  more,  he  said.  I  understood:  it  was  the  girl. 
He  was  wide  awake  at  last.  Gawdor  understanded  also. 
He  know  that  Gordineer  would  go  to  the  south — to  her. 
I  was  sorry;  but  it  was  no  use.  Gawdor  went  with  me 
to  the  pass.  When  we  come  back,  Jo  was  gone.  On  a 
bit  of  birch-bark  he  had  put  where  he  was  going,  and  the 
way  he  would  take.  He  said  he  would  come  back  to 
me — ah,  the  brave  comrade!  Gawdor  say  nothing,  but 
his  looks  were  black.  I  had  a  feeling.  I  sat  up  all  night, 
smoking.  I  was  not  afraid,  but  I  know  Gawdor  had 
found  the  valley  of  gold,  and  he  might  put  a  knife  in  me, 
because  to  know  of  such  a  thing  alone  is  fine.  Just  at 
dawn,  he  got  up  and  go  out.  He  did  not  come  back. 
I  waited,  and  at  last  went  to  the  pass.  In  the  afternoon, 
just  as  I  was  rounding  the  corner  of  a  cliff,  there  was  a 
shot — then  another.  The  first  went  by  my  head;  the 
second  caught  me  along  the  ribs,  but  not  to  great  hurt. 
Still,  I  fell  from  the  shock,  and  lost  some  blood.  It  was 
Gawdor;  he  thought  he  had  killed  me. 

"When  I  come  to  myself  I  bound  up  the  little  furrow 
in  the  flesh,  and  start  away.  I  know  that  Gawdor 
would  follow  Gordineer.  I  follow  him,  knowing  the 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  229 

way  he  must  take.  I  have  never  forget  the  next  night. 
I  had  to  travel  hard,  and  I  track  him  by  his  fires  and 
other  things.  When  sunset  come,  I  do  not  stop.  I  was 
in  a  valley,  and  I  push  on.  There  was  a  little  moon.  At 
last  I  saw  a  light  ahead — a  camp-fire,  I  know.  I  was 
weak,  and  could  have  dropped;  but  a  dread  was  on  me. 
I  come  to  the  fire.  I  saw  a  man  lying  near  it.  Just  as 
I  saw  him,  he  was  trying  to  rise.  But,  as  he  did  so,  some- 
thing sprang  out  of  the  shadow  upon  him,  at  his  throat. 
I  saw  huxi  raise  his  hand,  and  strike  it  with  a  knife. 
The  thing  let  go,  and  then  I  fire — but  only  scratched, 
I  think.  It  was  a  puma:  It  sprang  away  again,  into 
the  darkness.  I  ran  to  the  man,  and  raised  him.  It 
was  my  friend.  He  looked  up  at  me  and  shake  his  head. 
He  was  torn  at  the  throat.  But  there  was  something 
else — a  wound  in  the  back.  He  was  stooping  over  the 
fire  when  he  was  stabbed,  and  he  fell.  He  saw  that  it 
was  Gawdor.  He  had  been  left  for  dead,  as  I  was.  Nom 
de  Dieu!  just  when  I  come  and  could  have  save  him, 
the  puma  come  also.  It  is  the  best  men  who  have  such 
luck.  I  have  seen  it  often.  I  used  to  wonder  they  did 
not  curse  God." 

He  crossed  himself  and  mumbled  something.  Law- 
less rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  once  or 
twice,  pulling  at  his  beard  and  frowning.  His  eyes  were 
wet.  Shon  kept  blowing  into  his  closed  hand  and  blink- 
ing at  the  fire.  Pourcette  got  up  and  took  down  the  gun 
from  the  chimney.  He  brushed  off  the  dust  with  his 
coat-sleeve,  and  fondled  it,  shaking  his  head  at  it  a 
little.  As  he  began  to  speak  again,  Lawless  sat  down. 

"Now  I  know  why  they  do  not  curse.  Something 
curses  for  them.  Jo  give  me  a  word  for  her,  and  say 
'Well,  it  is  all  right;  but  I  wish  I  had  killed  the  puma.' 
There  was  nothing  more.  ...  I  followed  Gawdor  for 


230  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

days.  I  know  that  he  would  go  and  get  someone,  and 
go  back  to  the  gold.  I  thought  at  last  I  had  missed  him ; 
but  no.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do  when  I 
found  him.  One  night,  just  as  the  moon  was  showing 
over  the  hills,  I  come  upon  him.  I  was  quiet  as  a  puma. 
I  have  a  stout  cord  hi  my  pocket,  and  another  about  my 
body.  Just  as  he  was  stooping  over  the  fire,  as  Gordi- 
neer  did,  I  sprang  upon  him,  clasping  him  about  the 
neck,  and  bringing  him  to  the  ground.  He  could  not  get 
me  off.  I  am  small,  but  I  have  a  grip.  Then,  too,  I  had 
one  hand  at  his  throat.  It  was  no  use  to  struggle.  The 
cord  and  a  knife  were  in  my  teeth.  It  was  a  great  trick, 
but  his  breath  was  well  gone,  and  I  fastened  his  hands. 
It  was  no  use  to  struggle.  I  tied  his  feet  and  legs.  Then 
I  carried  him  to  a  tree  and  bound  him  tight.  I  unfas- 
tened his  hands  again  and  tied  them  round  the  tree. 
Then  I  built  a  great  fire  not  far  away.  He  begged  at 
first  and  cried.  But  I  was  hard.  He  got  wild,  and  at 
last  when  I  leave  him  he  cursed!  It  was  like  nothing  I 
ever  heard.  He  was  a  devil.  ...  I  come  back  after  I 
have  carry  the  message  to  the  poor  girl — it  is  a  sad 
thing  to  see  the  first  great  grief  of  the  young!  Gawdor 
was  not  there.  The  pumas  and  others  had  been  with 
him. 

"There  was  more  to  do.  I  wanted  to  kill  that  puma 
which  set  its  teeth  in  the  throat  of  my  friend.  I  hunted 
the  woods  where  it  had  happened,  beating  everywhere, 
thinking  that,  perhaps,  it  was  dead.  There  was  not 
much  blood  on  the  leaves,  so  I  guessed  that  it  had  not 
died.  I  hunted  from  that  spot,  and  killed  many — many. 
I  saw  that  they  began  to  move  north.  At  last  I  got 
back  here.  From  here  I  have  hunted  and  killed  them 
slow;  but  never  that  one  with  a  wound  in  the  shoulder 
from  Jo's  knife.  Still,  I  can  wait.  There  is  nothing  like 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  231 

patience  for  the  hunter  and  for  the  man  who  would  have 
blood  for  blood." 

He  paused,  and  Lawless  spoke.  "And  when  you  have 
killed  that  puma,  Pourcette — if  you  ever  do — what 
then?" 

Pourcette  fondled  the  gun,  then  rose  and  hung  it  up 
again  before  he  replied. 

"Then  I  will  go  to  Fort  St.  John,  to  the  girl — she  is 
there  with  her  father — and  sell  all  the  skins  to  the 
factor,  and  give  her  the  money."  He  waved  his  hand 
round  the  room.  "There  are  many  skins  here,  but  I 
have  more  cached  not  far  away.  Once  a  year  I  go  to  the 
Fort  for  flour  and  bullets.  A  dog-team  and  a  bois-bruU 
bring  them,  and  then  I  am  alone  as  before.  When  all 
that  is  done  I  will  come  back." 

"And  then,  Pourcette?"  said  Shon. 

"Then  I  will  hang  that  one  skin  over  the  chimney 
where  his  gun  is — and  go  out  and  kill  more  pumas. 
What  else  can  one  do?  When  I  stop  killing  I  shall  be 
killed.  A  million  pumas  and  their  skins  are  not  worth 
the  life  of  my  friend." 

Lawless  looked  round  the  room,  at  the  wooden  cup, 
the  gun,  the  bloodstained  clothes  on  the  wall,  and  the 
skins.  He  got  up,  came  over,  and  touched  Pourcette 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Little  man,"  he  said,  "give  it  up,  and  come  with  me. 
Come  to  Fort  St.  John,  sell  the  skins,  give  the  money 
to  the  girl,  and  then  let  us  travel  to  the  Barren  Grounds 
together,  and  from  there  to  the  south  country  again. 
You  will  go  mad  up  here.  You  have  killed  enough — 
Gawdor  and  many  pumas.  If  Jo  could  speak,  he  would 
say,  Give  it  up.  I  knew  Jo.  He  was  my  good  friend 
before  he  was  yours — mine  and  M'Gann's  here — and 
we  searched  for  him  to  travel  with  us.  He  would  have 


232  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

done  so,  I  think,  for  we  had  sport  and  trouble  of  one 
kind  and  another  together.  And  he  would  have  asked 
you  to  come  also.  Well,  do  so,  little  man.  We  haven't 
told  you  our  names.  I  am  Sir  Duke  Lawless,  and  this 
is  Shon  M'Gann." 

Pourcette  nodded:  "I  do  not  know  how  it  come  to 
me,  but  I  was  sure  from  the  first  you  are  his  friends.  He 
speak  often  of  you  and  of  two  others — where  are  they?" 

Lawless  replied,  and,  at  the  name  of  Pretty  Pierre, 
Shon  hid  his  forehead  hi  his  hand,  in  a  troubled  way. 

"And  you  will  come  with  us,"  said  Lawless,  "away 
from  this  loneliness?" 

" It  is  not  lonely,"  was  the  reply.  "To  hear  the  thrum 
of  the  pigeon,  the  whistle  of  the  hawk,  the  chatter  of 
the  black  squirrel,  and  the  long  cry  of  the  eagle,  is  not 
lonely.  Then,  there  is  the  river  and  the  pines — all 
music;  and  for  what  the  eye  sees,  God  has  been  good; 
and  to  kill  pumas  is  my  joy.  .  .  .  So,  I  cannot  go. 
These  hills  are  mine.  Few  strangers  come,  and  none 
stop  but  me.  Still,  to-morrow  or  any  day,  I  will  show 
you  the  way  to  the  valley  where  the  gold  is.  Perhaps 
riches  is  there,  perhaps  not,  you  shall  find." 

Lawless  saw  that  it  was  no  use  to  press  the  matter. 
The  old  man  had  but  one  idea,  and  nothing  could  ever 
change  it.  Solitude  fixes  our  hearts  immovably  on 
things — call  it  madness,  what  you  will.  In  busy  life 
we  have  no  real  or  lasting  dreams,  no  ideals.  We  have 
to  go  to  the  primeval  hills  and  the  wild  plains  for  them. 
When  we  leave  the  hills  and  the  plains,  we  lose  them 
again.  Shon  was,  however,  for  the  valley  of  gold.  He 
was  a  poor  man,  and  it  would  be  a  joyful  thing  for  him 
if  one  day  he  could  empty  ample  gold  into  his  wife's 
lap.  Lawless  was  not  greedy,  but  he  and  good  gold  were 
not  at  variance. 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  233 

"See,"  said  Shon,  "the  valley's  the  thing.  We  can 
hunt  as  we  go,  and  if  there's  gold  for  the  scrapin',  why, 
there  y'are — fill  up  and  come  again.  If  not,  divil  the 
harm  done.  So  here's  thumbs  up  to  go,  say  I.  But  I 
wish,  Lawless,  I  wish  that  I'd  niver  known  how  Jo  wint 
off,  an'  I  wish  we  were  all  t'gither  agin,  as  down  in  the 
Pipi  Valley." 

"  There's  nothing  stands  in  this  world,  Shon,  but  the 
faith  of  comrades  and  the  truth  of  good  women.  The 
rest  hangs  by  a  hair.  I'll  go  to  the  valley  with  you.  It's 
many  a  day  since  I  washed  my  luck  in  a  gold-pan." 

"I  will  take  you  there,"  said  Pourcette,  suddenly  ris- 
ing, and,  with  shy  abrupt  motions  grasping  their  hands 
and  immediately  letting  them  go  again.  "I  will  take 
you  to-morrow."  Then  he  spread  skins  upon  the  floor, 
put  wood  upon  the  fire,  and  the  three  were  soon  asleep. 

The  next  morning,  just  as  the  sun  came  laboriously 
over  the  white  peak  of  a  mountain,  and  looked  down 
into  the  great  gulch  beneath  the  hut,  the  three  started. 
For  many  hours  they  crept  along  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tain, then  came  slowly  down  upon  pine-crested  hills, 
and  over  to  where  a  small  plain  stretched  out.  It  was 
Pourcette's  little  farm.  Its  position  was  such  that  it 
caught  the  sun  always,  and  was  protected  from  the 
north  and  east  winds.  Tall  shafts  of  Indian  corn  with 
their  yellow  tassels  were  still  standing,  and  the  stubble 
of  the  field  where  the  sickle  had  been  showed  in  the  dis- 
tance like  a  carpet  of  gold.  It  seemed  strange  to  Law- 
less that  this  old  man  beside  him  should  be  thus  peace- 
ful in  his  habits,  the  most  primitive  and  arcadian  of 
farmers,  and  yet  one  whose  trade  was  blood — whose 
one  purpose  in  life  was  destruction  and  vengeance. 

They  pushed  on.  Towards  the  end  of  the  day  they 
came  upon  a  little  herd  of  caribou,  and  had  excellent 


234  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

sport.  Lawless  noticed  that  Pourcette  seemed  scarcely 
to  take  any  aim  at  all,  so  swift  and  decisive  was  his 
handling  of  the  gun.  They  skinned  the  deer  and  cached 
them,  and  took  up  the  journey  again.  For  four  days 
they  travelled  and  hunted  alternately.  Pourcette  had 
shot  two  mountain  lions,  but  they  had  seen  no  pumas. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  they  came  upon  the 
valley  where  the  gold  was.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
it.  A  beautiful  little  stream  ran  through  it,  and  its  bed 
was  sprinkled  with  gold — a  goodly  sight  to  a  poor  man 
like  Shon,  interesting  enough  to  Lawless.  For  days, 
while  Lawless  and  Pourcette  hunted,  Shon  laboured 
like  a  galley-slave,  making  the  little  specks  into  piles, 
and  now  and  again  crowning  a  pile  with  a  nugget.  The 
fever  of  the  hunter  had  passed  from  him,  and  another 
fever  was  on  him.  The  others  urged  him  to  come  away. 
The  whiter  would  soon  be  hard  on  them;  he  must  go, 
and  he  and  Lawless  would  return  in  the  spring. 

Prevailing  en  him  at  last,  they  started  back  to  Clear 
Mountain.  The  first  day  Shon  was  abstracted.  He 
carried  the  gold  he  had  gathered  in  a  bag  wound  about 
his  body.  It  was  heavy,  and  he  could  not  travel  fast. 
One  morning,  Pourcette,  who  had  been  off  in  the  hills, 
came  to  say  that  he  had  sighted  a  little  herd  of  wapiti. 
Shon  had  fallen  and  sprained  his  arm  the  evening  before 
(gold  is  heavy  to  carry),  and  he  did  not  go  with  the 
others.  He  stayed  and  dreamed  of  his  good  fortune,  and 
of  his  home.  In  the  late  afternoon  he  lay  down  in  the 
sun  beside  the  camp-fire  and  fell  asleep  from  much 
thinking.  Lawless  and  Pourcette  had  little  success. 
The  herd  had  gone  before  they  arrived.  They  beat  the 
hills,  and  turned  back  to  camp  at  last,  without  fret,  like 
good  sportsmen.  At  a  point  they  separated,  to  come 
down  upon  the  camp  at  different  angles,  in  the  hope  of 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  235 

still  getting  a  shot.  The  camp  lay  exposed  upon  a 
platform  of  the  mountain. 

Lawless  came  out  upon  a  ledge  of  rock  opposite  the 
camp,  a  gulch  lying  between.  He  looked  across.  He 
was  in  the  shadow,  the  other  wall  of  the  gulch  was  in 
the  sun.  The  air  was  incomparably  clear  and  fresh, 
with  an  autumnal  freshness.  Everything  stood  out  dis- 
tinct and  sharply  outlined,  nothing  flat  or  blurred.  He 
saw  the  camp,  and  the  fire,  with  the  smoke  quivering 
up  in  a  diffusing  blue  column,  Shon  lying  beside  it.  He 
leaned  upon  his  rifle  musingly.  The  shadows  of  the 
pines  were  blue  and  cold,  but  the  tops  of  them  were 
burnished  with  the  cordial  sun,  and  a  glacier-field, 
somehow,  took  on  a  rose  and  violet  light,  reflected, 
maybe,  from  the  soft-complexioned  sky.  He  drew  in  a 
long  breath  of  delight,  and  widened  his  line  of  vision. 

Suddenly,  something  he  saw  made  him  lurch  back- 
ward. At  an  angle  in  almost  equal  distance  from  him 
and  Shon,  upon  a  small  peninsula  of  rock,  a  strange 
thing  was  happening.  Old  Pourcette  was  kneeling,  en- 
gaged with  his  moccasin.  Behind  him  was  the  sun, 
against  which  he  was  abruptly  defined,  looking  larger 
than  usual.  Clear  space  and  air  soft  with  colour  were 
about  him.  Across  this  space,  on  a  little  sloping  plateau 
near  him,  there  crept  an  animal.  It  seemed  to  Lawless 
that  he  could  see  the  lithe  stealthiness  of  its  muscles 
and  the  ripple  of  its  skin.  But  that  was  imagination, 
because  he  was  too  far  away.  He  cried  out,  and  swung 
his  gun  shoulderwards  in  desperation.  But,  at  the  mo- 
ment, Pourcette  turned  sharply  round,  saw  his  danger, 
caught  his  gun,  and  fired  as  the  puma  sprang.  There 
had  been  no  chance  for  aim,  and  the  beast  was  only 
wounded.  It  dropped  upon  the  man.  He  let  the  gun 
fall;  it  rolled  and  fell  over  the  cliff.  Then  came  a 


236  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

scene,  wicked  in  its  peril  to  Pourcette,  for  whom  no  aid 
could  come,  though  two  men  stood  watching  the  great 
fight — Shon  M'Gann,  awake  now,  and  Lawless — with 
their  guns  silent  in  their  hands.  They  dare  not  fire, 
for  fear  of  injuring  the  man,  and  they  could  not  reach 
him  in  tune  to  be  of  help. 

There  against  the  weird  solitary  sky  the  man  and  the 
puma  fought.  When  the  animal  dropped  on  him,  Pour- 
cette caught  it  by  the  throat  with  both  hands,  and  held 
back  its  fangs;  but  its  claws  were  furrowing  the  flesh 
of  his  breast  and  legs.  His  long  arms  were  of  immense 
strength,  and  though  the  pain  of  his  torn  flesh  was  great 
he  struggled  grandly  with  the  beast,  and  bore  it  away, 
from  his  body.  As  he  did  so  he  slightly  changed  the 
position  of  one  hand.  It  came  upon  a  welt — a  scar. 
When  he  felt  that,  new  courage  and  strength  seemed 
given  him.  He  gave  a  low  growl  like  an  animal,  and 
then,  letting  go  one  hand,  caught  at  the  knife  in  his 
belt.  As  he  did  so  the  puma  sprang  away  from  him,  and 
crouched  upon  the  rock,  making  ready  for  another  leap. 
Lawless  and  Shon  could  see  its  tail  curving  and  beating. 
But  now,  to  their  astonishment,  the  man  was  the  ag- 
gressor. He  was  filled  with  a  fury  which  knows  nothing 
of  fear.  The  welt  his  fingers  had  felt  burned  them. 

He  came  slowly  upon  the  puma.  Lawless  could  see 
the  hard  glitter  of  his  knife.  The  puma's  teeth  sawed 
together,  its  claws  picked  at  the  rocks,  its  body  curved 
for  a  spring.  The  man  sprang  first,  and  ran  the  knife 
in;  but  not  into  a  mortal  corner.  Once  more  they 
locked.  The  man's  fingers  were  again  at  the  puma's 
throat,  and  they  swayed  together,  the  claws  of  the  beast 
making  surface  havoc.  But  now  as  they  stood  up,  to 
the  eyes  of  the  fearful  watchers  inextricably  mixed,  the 
man  lunged  again  with  his  knife,  and  this  time  straight 


THE  SPOIL  OF  THE  PUMA  237 

into  the  heart  of  the  murderer.  The  puma  loosened, 
quivered,  fell  back  dead.  The  man  rose  to  his  feet  with 
a  cry,  and  his  hands  stretched  above  his  head,  as  it 
were  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy.  Shon  forgot  his  gold  and  ran; 
Lawless  hurried  also. 

When  the  two  men  got  to  the  spot  they  found  Pour- 
cette  binding  up  his  wounds.  He  came  to  his  feet, 
heedless  of  his  hurts,  and  grasped  their  hands.  "Come, 
come,  my  friends,  and  see,"  he  cried. 

He  pulled  forward  the  loose  skin  on  the  puma's  breast 
and  showed  them  the  scar  of  a  knife-wound  above  the 
one  his  own  knife  had  made. 

"I've  got  the  other  murderer,"  he  said;  " Gordineer's 
knife  went  in  here.  Sacre,  but  it  is  good!" 

Pourcette's  flesh  needed  little  medicine;  he  did  not 
feel  his  pain  and  stiffness.  When  they  reached  Clear 
Mountain,  bringing  with  them  the  skin  which  was  to 
hang  above  the  fireplace,  Pourcette  prepared  to  go  to 
Fort  St.  John,  as  he  had  said  he  would,  to  sell  all  the 
skins  and  give  the  proceeds  to  the  girl. 

"When  that's  done,"  said  Lawless,  "you  will  have 
no  reason  for  staying  here.  If  you  will  come  with  us 
after,  we  will  go  to  the  Fort  with  you.  We  three  will 
then  come  back  in  the  spring  to  the  valley  of  gold  for 
sport  and  riches." 

He  spoke  lightly,  yet  seriously  too.  The  old  man 
shook  his  head.  "I  have  thought,"  he  said.  "I  cannot 
go  to  the  south.  I  am  a  hunter  now,  nothing  more.  I 
have  been  long  alone;  I  do  not  wish  for  change.  I  shall 
remain  at  Clear  Mountain  when  these  skins  have  gone 
to  Fort  St.  John,  and  if  you  come  to  me  in  the  spring  or 
at  any  time,  my  door  will  open  to  you,  and  I  will  share 
all  with  you.  Gordineer  was  a  good  man.  You  are  good 
men.  I'll  remember  you,  but  I  can't  go  with  you — no. 


238  A  ROMANY  OF  THE   SNOWS 

Some  day  you  would  leave  me  to  go  to  the  women  who 
wait  for  you,  and  then  I  should  be  alone  again.  I  will 
not  change — vraiment ! ' ' 

On  the  morning  they  left,  he  took  Jo  Gordineer's  cup 
from  the  shelf,  and  from  a  hidden  place  brought  out  a 
flask  half  filled  with  liquor.  He  poured  out  a  little  in 
the  cup  gravely,  and  handed  it  to  Lawless,  but  Lawless 
gave  it  back  to  him. 

"You  must  drink  from  it,"  he  said,  "not  me." 

He  held  out  the  cup  of  his  own  flask.  When  each  of 
the  three  had  a  share,  the  old  man  raised  his  long 
arm  solemnly,  and  said  in  a  tone  so  gentle  that  the  oth- 
ers hardly  recognised  his  voice:  "To  a  lost  comrade!" 
They  drank  in  silence. 

"A  little  gentleman!"  said  Lawless,  under  his  breath. 

When  they  were  ready  to  start,  Lawless  said  to  him 
at  the  last:  "What  will  you  do  here,  comrade,  as  the 
days  go  on?" 

"There  are  pumas  in  the  mountains,"  he  replied. 

They  parted  from  him  upon  the  ledge  where  the  great 
fight  had  occurred,  and  travelled  into  the  east.  Turn- 
ing many  times,  they  saw  him  still  standing  there.  At 
a  point  where  they  must  lose  sight  of  him,  they  looked 
for  the  last  time.  He  was  alone  with  his  solitary  hills, 
leaning  on  his  rifle.  They  fired  two  shots  into  the  air. 
They  saw  him  raise  his  rifle,  and  two  faint  reports  came 
in  reply.  He  became  again  immovable :  as  much  a  part 
of  those  hills  as  the  shining  glacier;  never  to  leave  them. 

In  silence  the  two  rounded  the  cliff,  and  saw  him  no 
more. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUN  DOGS 

"WELL,  you  see,"  said  Jacques  Parfaite,  as  he  gave 
Whiskey  Wine,  the  leading  dog,  a  cut  with  the  whip 
and  twisted  his  patois  to  the  uses  of  narrative,  "he  has 
been  alone  there  at  the  old  Fort  for  a  long  tune.  I 
remember  when  I  first  see  him.  It  was  in  the  summer. 
The  world  smell  sweet  if  you  looked  this  way  or  that. 
If  you  drew  in  your  breath  quick  from  the  top  of  a  hill 
you  felt  a  great  man.  Ridley,  the  chief  trader,  and  my- 
self have  come  to  the  Fort  on  our  way  to  the  Mackenzie 
River.  In  the  yard  of  the  Fort  the  grass  have  grown 
tall,  and  sprung  in  the  cracks  under  the  doors  and  win- 
dows; the  Fort  have  not  been  use  for  a  long  time. 
Once  there  was  plenty  of  buffalo  near,  and  the  caribou 
sometimes;  but  they  were  all  gone — only  a  few.  The 
Indians  never  went  that  way,  only  when  the  seasons 
were  the  best.  The  Company  have  close  the  Post;  it 
did  not  pay.  Still,  it  was  pleasant  after  a  long  tramp  to 
come  to  even  an  empty  fort.  We  know  dam'  well  there 
is  food  buried  hi  the  yard  or  under  the  floor,  and  it 
would  be  droll  to  open  the  place  for  a  day — Lost  Man's 
Tavern,  we  called  it.  Well — " 

"Well,  what?"  said  Sir  Duke  Lawless,  who  had 
travelled  up  to  the  Barren  Grounds  for  the  sake  of  ad- 
venture and  game;  and,  with  his  old  friend,  Shon 
M'Gann,  had  trusted  himself  to  the  excellent  care  of 
Jacques  Parfaite,  the  half-breed. 

Jacques  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and  shook  it 
wisely  and  mysteriously.  "  Trts  bien,  we  trailed  through 

233 


240  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

the  long  grass,  pried  open  the  shutters  and  door,  and 
went  in.  It  is  cool  in  the  north  of  an  evening,  as  you 
know.  We  build  a  fire,  and  soon  there  is  very  fine 
tunes.  Ridley  pried  up  the  floor,  and  we  found  good 
things.  Holy!  but  it  was  a  feast.  We  had  a  little  rum 
also.  As  we  talk  and  a  great  laugh  swim  round,  there 
come  a  noise  behind  us  like  shuffling  feet.  We  got  to  our 
legs  quick.  Mon  Dieu,  a  strange  sight!  A  man  stand 
looking  at  us  with  something  in  his  face  that  make  my 
fingers  cold  all  at  once — a  look — well  you  would  think 
it  was  carved  hi  stone — it  never  change.  Once  I  was 
at  Fort  Garry;  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  is  there.  They 
have  a  picture  in  it  of  the  great  scoundrel  Judas  as  he 
went  to  hang  himself.  Judas  was  a  fool — what  was 
thirty  dollars! — you  give  me  hunder'  to  take  you  to  the 
Barren  Grounds.  Pah!" 

The  half-breed  chuckled,  shook  his  head  sagely,  swore 
half-way  through  his  vocabulary  at  Whiskey  Wine, 
gratefully  received  a  pipe  of  tobacco  from  Shon  M'Gann, 
and  continued:  "He  come  in  on  us  slow  and  still,  and 
push  out  long  thin  hands,  the  fingers  bent  like  claws, 
towards  the  pot.  He  was  starving.  Yes,  it  was  so; 
but  I  tfearly  laugh.  It  was  spring — a  man  is  a  fool  to 
starve  in  the  spring.  But  he  was  differen'.  There  was 
a  cause.  The  factor  give  him  soup  from  the  pot  and  a 
little  rum.  He  was  mad  for  meat,  but  that  would  have 
kill  him — yes.  He  did  not  look  at  you  like  a  man. 
When  you  are  starving,  you  are  an  animal.  But  there 
was  something  more  with  this.  He  made  the  flesh  creep, 
he  was  so  thin,  and  strange,  and  sulky — eh,  is  that  a 
word  when  the  face  looks  dark  and  never  smiles?  So. 
He  would  not  talk.  When  we  ask  him  where  he  come 
from,  he  points  to  the  north;  when  we  ask  him  where  he 
is  going,  he  shake  his  head  as  he  not  know.  A  man  is 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUN  DOGS       241 

mad  not  to  know  where  he  travel  to  up  here;  something 
comes  quick  to  him  unless,  and  it  is  not  good  to  die  too 
soon.  The  trader  said,  'Come  with  us.'  He  shake  his 
head,  No.  'PYaps  you  want  to  stay  here/  said  Ridley 
loud,  showing  his  teeth  all  in  a  minute.  He  nod.  Then 
the  trader  laugh  thick  in  his  throat  and  give  him  more 
soup.  After,  he  try  to  make  the  man  talk;  but  he  was 
stubborn  like  that  dirty  Whiskey  Wine — ah,  sacre 
lieu!" 

Whiskey  Wine  had  his  usual  portion  of  whip  and 
anathema  before  Jacques  again  took  up  the  thread. 
"It  was  no  use.  He  would  not  talk.  When  the  trader 
get  angry  once  more,  he  turned  to  me,  and  the  look  in 
his  face  make  me  sorry.  I  swore — Ridley  did  not  mind 
that,  I  was  thick  friends  with  him.  I  say,  'Keep  still. 
It  is  no  good.  He  has  had  bad  tunes.  He  has  been  lost, 
and  seen  mad  things.  He  will  never  be  again  like  when 
God  make  him.'  Very  well,  I  spoke  true.  He  was  like 
a  sun  dog." 

"What's  that  ye  say,  Parfaite?"  said  Shon — "a  sun 
dog?" 

Sir  Duke  Lawless,  puzzled,  listened  eagerly  for  the 
reply. 

The  half-breed  in  delight  ran  before  them,  cracking 
his  whip  and  jingling  the  bells  at  his  knees.  "Ah,  that's 
it !  It  is  a  name  we  have  for  some.  You  do  not  know? 
It  is  easy.  In  the  high-up  country" — pointing  north— 
"you  see  sometimes  many  suns.  But  it  is  not  many 
after  all;  it  is  only  one;  and  the  rest  are  the  same  as 
your  face  in  looking-glasses — one,  two,  three,  plenty. 
You  see?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Duke,  "reflections  of  the  real  sun." 

Parfaite  tapped  him  on  the  arm.  "So:  you  have 
the  thing.  Well,  this  man  is  not  himself — he  have 


242  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

left  himself  where  he  seen  his  bad  times.  It  makes  your 
flesh  creep  sometimes  when  you  see  the  sun  dogs  in 
the  sky — this  man  did  the  same.  You  shall  see  him  to- 
night." 

Sir  Duke  looked  at  the  little  half-breed,  and  won- 
dered that  the  product  of  so  crude  a  civilisation  should 
be  so  little  crude  in  his  imagination.  "What  happened?  " 
he  asked. 

"Nothing  happened.  But  the  man  could  not  sleep. 
He  sit  before  the  fire,  his  eyes  moving  here  and  there, 
and  sometimes  he  shiver.  Well,  I  watch  him.  In  the 
morning  we  leave  him  there,  and  he  has  been  there  ever 
since — the  only  man  at  the  Fort.  The  Indians  do  not 
go;  they  fear  him;  but  there  is  no  harm  in  him.  He 
is  old  now.  In  an  hour  we'll  be  there." 

The  sun  was  hanging,  with  one  shoulder  up  like  a  great 
red  peering  dwarf,  on  the  far  side  of  a  long  hillock  of 
stunted  pines,  when  the  three  arrived  at  the  Fort.  The 
yard  was  still  as  Parfaite  had  described  it — full  of  rank 
grass,  through  which  one  path  trailed  to  the  open  door. 
On  the  stockade  walls  grass  grew,  as  though  where  men 
will  not  live  like  men  Nature  labours  to  smother.  The 
shutters  of  the  window  were  not  open;  light  only  entered 
through  narrow  openings  in  them,  made  for  the  needs 
of  possible  attacks  by  Indians  in  the  far  past.  One 
would  have  sworn  that  anyone  dwelling  there  was  more 
like  the  dead  than  the  living.  Yet  it  had,  too,  something 
of  the  peace  of  the  lonely  graveyard.  There  was  no 
one  hi  the  Fort;  but  there  were  signs  of  life — skins 
piled  here  and  there,  a  few  utensils,  a  bench,  a  hammock 
for  food  swung  from  the  rafters,  a  low  fire  burning  in  the 
chimney,  and  a  rude  spear  stretched  on  the  wall. 

"Sure,  the  place  gives  you  shivers!"  said  Shon. 
"Open  go  these  windows.  Put  wood  on  the  fire,  Par- 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUN  DOGS       243 

faite;  cook  the  meat  that  we've  brought,  and  no  other, 
me  boy;  and  whin  we're  filled  wid  a  meal  and  the  love 
o'  God,  bring  in  your  Lost  Man,  or  Sun  Dog,  or  what- 
iver's  he  by  name  or  nature." 

While  Parfaite  and  Shon  busied  themselves,  Lawless 
wandered  out  with  his  gun,  and,  drawn  on  by  the  clear 
joyous  air  of  the  evening,  walked  along  a  path  made  by 
the  same  feet  that  had  travelled  the  yard  of  the  Fort. 
He  followed  it  almost  unconsciously  at  first,  thinking  of 
the  strange  histories  that  the  far  north  hoards  hi  its 
fastnesses,  wondering  what  singular  fate  had  driven  the 
host  of  this  secluded  tavern — farthest  from  the  pleasant 
south  country,  nearest  to  the  Pole — to  stand,  as  it  were, 
a  sentinel  at  the  raw  outposts  of  the  world.  He  looked 
down  at  the  trail  where  he  was  walking  with  a  kind  of 
awe,  which  even  his  cheerful  common  sense  could  not 
dismiss. 

He  came  to  the  top  of  a  ridge  on  which  were  a  hand- 
ful of  meagre  trees.  Leaning  on  his  gun,  he  looked 
straight  away  into  the  farthest  distance.  On  the  left 
was  a  blurred  edge  of  pines,  with  tops  like  ungainly  ten- 
drils feeling  for  the  sky.  On  the  right  was  a  long  bare 
stretch  of  hills  veiled  in  the  thin  smoke  of  the  evening, 
and  between,  straight  before  him,  was  a  wide  lane  of 
unknown  country,  billowing  away  to  where  it  froze  into 
the  vast  archipelago  that  closes  with  the  summit  of  the 
world.  He  experienced  now  that  weird  charm  which  has 
drawn  so  many  into  Arctic  wilds  and  gathered  the  eyes 
of  millions  longingly.  Wife,  child,  London,  civilisation, 
were  forgotten  for  the  moment.  He  was  under  a  spell 
which,  once  felt,  lingers  hi  your  veins  always. 

At  length  his  look  drew  away  from  the  glimmering 
distance,  and  he  suddenly  became  conscious  of  human 
presence.  Here,  almost  at  his  feet,  was  a  man,  also 


244  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

looking  out  along  that  slumbering  waste.  He  was 
dressed  in  skins,  his  arms  were  folded  across  his  breast, 
his  chin  bent  low,  and  he  gazed  up  and  out  from  deep 
eyes  shadowed  by  strong  brows.  Lawless  saw  the 
shoulders  of  the  watcher  heave  and  shake  once  or  twice, 
and  then  a  voice  with  a  deep  aching  trouble  in  it  spoke; 
but  at  first  he  could  catch  no  words.  Presently,  how- 
ever, he  heard  distinctly,  for  the  man  raised  his  hands 
high  above  his  head,  and  the  words  fell  painfully:  "Am 
I  my  brother's  keeper?  " 

Then  a  low  harsh  laugh  came  from  him,  and  he  was 
silent  again.  Lawless  did  not  move.  At  last  the  man 
turned  round,  and,  seeing  him  standing  motionless,  his 
gun  in  his  hands,  he  gave  a  hoarse  cry.  Then  he  stood 
still.  "If  you  have  come  to  kill,  do  not  wait,"  he  said; 
"I  am  ready." 

At  the  sound  of  Lawless's  reassuring  voice  he  re- 
covered, and  began,  in  stumbling  words,  to  excuse  him- 
self. His  face  was  as  Jacques  Parfaite  had  described 
it :  trouble  of  some  terrible  kind  was  furrowed  in  it,  and, 
though  his  body  was  stalwart,  he  looked  as  if  he  had 
lived  a  century.  His  eyes  dwelt  on  Sir  Duke  Lawless 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  coming  nearer,  he  said,  "You 
are  an  Englishman?" 

Lawless  held  out  his  hand  in  greeting,  yet  he  was  not 
sorry  when  the  other  replied:  "The  hand  of  no  man  in 
greeting.  Are  you  alone?  " 

When  he  had  been  told,  he  turned  towards  the  Fort, 
and  silently  they  made  their  way  to  it.  At  the  door 
he  turned  and  said  to  Lawless,  "My  name— to  you — 
is  Detmold." 

The  greeting  between  Jacques  and  his  sombre  host 
was  notable  for  its  extreme  brevity;  with  Shon  M'Gann 
for  its  hesitation — Shon's  impressionable  Irish  nature 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUN  DOGS       245 

was  awed  by  the  look  of  the  man,  though  he  had  seen 
some  strange  things  in  the  north.  Darkness  was  on 
them  by  this  time,  and  the  host  lighted  bowls  of  fat 
with  wicks  of  deer's  tendons,  and  by  the  light  of  these 
and  the  fire  they  ate  their  supper.  Parfaite  beguiled 
the  evening  with  tales  of  the  north,  always  interesting 
to  Lawless;  to  which  Shon  added  many  a  shrewd  word 
of  humour — for  he  had  recovered  quickly  from  his  first 
timidity  in  the  presence  of  the  stranger. 

As  tune  went  on  Jacques  saw  that  then*  host's  eyes 
were  frequently  fixed  on  Sir  Duke  hi  a  half-eager,  mu- 
sing way,  and  he  got  Shon  away  to  bed  and  left  the  two 
together. 

"You  are  a  singular  man.  Why  do  you  live  here?" 
said  Lawless.  Then  he  went  straight  to  the  heart  of 
the  thing.  "What  trouble  have  you  had,  of  what  crime 
are  you  guilty?" 

The  man  rose  to  his  feet,  shaking,  and  walked  to  and 
fro  in  the  room  for  a  tune,  more  than  once  trying  to 
speak,  but  f  ailing.  He  beckoned  to  Lawless,  and  opened 
the  door.  Lawless  took  his  hat  and  followed  him  along 
the  trail  they  had  travelled  before  supper  until  they 
came  to  the  ridge  where  they  had  met.  The  man  faced 
the  north,  the  moon  glistening  coldly  on  his  grey  hah*. 
He  spoke  with  incredible  weight  and  slowness: 

"I  tell  you — for  you  are  one  who  understands  men, 
and  you  come  from  a  life  that  I  once  knew  well.  I  know 
of  your  people.  I  was  of  good  family — " 

"I  know  the  name,"  said  Sir  Duke  quietly,  at  the 
same  time  fumbling  in  his  memory  for  flying  bits  of 
gossip  and  history  which  he  could  not  instantly  find. 

"There  were  two  brothers  of  us.  I  was  the  younger. 
A  ship  was  going  to  the  Arctic  Sea."  He  pointed  into 
the  north.  "We  were  both  young  and  ambitious.  He 


246  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

was  in  the  army,  I  the  navy.  We  went  with  the  expe- 
dition. At  first  it  was  all  beautiful  and  grand,  and  it 
seemed  noble  to  search  for  those  others  who  had  gone 
into  that  land  and  never  come  back.  But  our  ship  got 
locked  in  the  ice,  and  then  came  great  trouble.  A  year 
went  by  and  we  did  not  get  free;  then  another  year 
began.  .  .  .  Four  of  us  set  out  for  the  south.  Two  died. 
My  brother  and  I  were  left — " 

Lawless  exclaimed.  He  now  remembered  how  gen- 
eral sympathy  went  out  to  a  well-known  county  family 
when  it  was  announced  that  two  of  its  members  were 
lost  in  the  Arctic  regions. 

Detmold  continued:  " I  was  the  stronger.  He  grew 
weaker  and  weaker.  It  was  awful  to  live  those  days: 
the  endless  snow  and  cold,  the  long  nights  when  you 
could  only  hear  the  whirring  of  meteors,  the  bright  sun 
which  did  not  warm  you,  nor  even  when  many  suns, 
the  reflections  of  itself,  followed  it — the  mocking  sun 
dogs,  no  more  the  sun  than  I  am  what  my  mother 
brought  into  the  world.  .  .  .  We  walked  like  dumb 
men,  for  the  dreadful  cold  fills  the  heart  with  bitterness. 
I  think  I  grew  to  hate  him  because  he  could  not  travel 
faster,  that  days  were  lost,  and  death  crept  on  so  piti- 
lessly. Sometimes  I  had  a  mad  wish  to  kill  him.  May 
you  never  know  suffering  that  begets  such  things!  I 
laughed  as  I  sat  beside  him,  and  saw  him  sink  to  sleep 
and  die.  ...  I  think  I  could  have  saved  him.  When 
he  was  gone  I — what  do  men  do  sometimes  when  star- 
vation is  on  them,  and  they  have  a  hunger  of  hell  to 
live?  I  did  that  shameless  thing — and  he  was  my 
brother!  ...  I  lived,  and  was  saved." 

Lawless  shrank  away  from  the  man,  but  words  of 
horror  got  no  farther  than  his  throat.  And  he  was  glad 
afterwards  that  it  was  so;  for  when  he  looked  again  at 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUN  DOGS       247 

this  woful  relic  of  humanity  before  him  he  felt  a  strange 
pity. 

" God's  hand  is  on  me  to  punish,"  said  the  man.  "It 
will  never  be  lifted.  Death  were  easy:  I  bear  the  in- 
famy of  living." 

Lawless  reached  out  and  caught  him  gently  by  the 
shoulders.  "Poor  fellow!  poor  Detmold!"  he  said. 

For  an  instant  the  sorrowful  face  lighted,  the  square 
chin  trembled,  and  the  hands  thrust  out  towards  Law- 
less, but  suddenly  dropped. 

"Go,"  he  said  humbly,  "and  leave  me  here.  We 
must  not  meet  again.  ...  I  have  had  one  moment  of 
respite.  .  .  .  Go." 

Without  a  word,  Lawless  turned  and  made  his  way 
to  the  Fort.  In  the  morning  the  three  comrades  started 
on  their  journey  again;  but  no  one  sped  them  on  their 
way  or  watched  them  as  they  went. 


THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR 

HE  lived  in  a  hut  on  a  jutting  crag  of  the  Cliff  of  the 
King.  You  could  get  to  it  by  a  hard  climb  up  a  precip- 
itous pathway,  or  by  a  ladder  of  ropes  which  swung 
from  his  cottage  door  down  the  cliff-side  to  the  sands. 
The  bay  that  washed  the  sands  was  called  Belle  Amour. 
The  cliff  was  huge,  sombre;  it  had  a  terrible  granite 
moroseness.  If  you  travelled  back  from  its  edge  until 
you  stood  within  the  very  heart  of  Labrador,  you  would 
add  step  upon  step  of  barrenness  and  austerity. 

Only  at  seasons  did  the  bay  share  the  gloom  of  the 
cliff.  When  out  of  its  shadow  it  was,  in  summer,  very 
bright  and  playful,  sometimes  boisterous,  often  idle, 
coquetting  with  the  sands.  There  was  a  great  differ- 
ence between  the  cliff  and  the  bay:  the  cliff  was  only 
as  it  appeared,  but  the  bay  was  a  shameless  hypocrite. 
For  under  one  shoulder  it  hid  a  range  of  reefs,  and,  at 
a  spot  where  the  shadows  of  the  cliff  never  reached  it, 
and  the  sun  played  with  a  grim  kind  of  joy,  a  long 
needle  of  rock  ran  up  at  an  angle  under  the  water, 
waiting  to  pierce  irresistibly  the  adventurous  ship  that, 
in  some  mad  moment,  should  creep  to  its  shores. 

The  man  was  more  like  the  cliff  than  the  bay:  stern, 
powerful,  brooding.  His  only  companions  were  the 
Indians,  who  in  summer-time  came  and  went,  getting 
stores  of  him,  which  he  in  turn  got  from  a  post  of  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company,  seventy  miles  up  the  coast. 
At  one  time  the  Company,  impressed  by  the  number 
of  skins  brought  to  them  by  the  pilot,  and  the  stores 

248 


THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR        249 

he  bought  of  them,  had  thought  of  establishing  a  post 
at  Belle  Amour;  but  they  saw  that  his  dealings  with 
them  were  fair  and  that  he  had  small  gain,  and  they"de- 
cided  to  use  him  as  an  unofficial  agent,  and  reap  what 
profit  was  to  be  had  as  things  stood.  Kenyon,  the  Com- 
pany's agent,  who  had  the  Post,  was  keen  to  know  why 
Gaspard  the  pilot  lived  at  Belle  Amour.  No  white 
man  sojourned  near  him,  and  he  saw  no  one  save  now 
and  then  a  priest  who  travelled  silently  among  the 
Indians,  or  some  fisherman,  hunter,  or  woodsman,  who, 
for  pleasure  or  from  pure  adventure,  ran  into  the  bay 
and  tasted  the  hospitality  tucked  away  on  a  ledge  of 
the  Cliff  of  the  King. 

To  Kenyon,  Gaspard  was  unresponsive,  however 
adroit  the  catechism.  Father  Corraine  also,  who  some- 
times stepped  across  the  dark  threshold  of  Gaspard's 
hut,  would  have,  for  the  man's  soul's  sake,  dug  out  the 
heart  of  his  secret;  but  Gaspard,  open  with  food,  fire, 
blanket,  and  tireless  attendance,  closed  like  the  doors  of 
a  dungeon  when  the  priest  would  have  read  him.  At 
the  name  of  good  Ste.  Anne  he  would  make  the  sacred 
gesture,  and  would  take  a  blessing  when  the  priest 
passed  from  his  hut  to  go  again  into  the  wilds;  but  when 
pressed  to  disclose  his  mind  and  history,  he  would  al- 
ways say:  "M'sieu',  I  have  nothing  to  confess."  After 
a  number  of  years  the  priest  ceased  to  ask  him,  and  he 
remained  with  the  secret  of  his  life,  inscrutable  and 
silent. 

Being  vigilant,  one  would  have  seen,  however,  that 
he  lived  in  some  land  of  memory  or  anticipation,  be- 
yond his  life  of  daily  toil  and  usual  dealing.  The  hut 
seemed  to  have  been  built  at  a  point  where  east  and 
west  and  south  the  great  gulf  could  be  seen  and  watched. 
It  seemed  almost  ludicrous  that  a  man  should  call  him- 


250  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

self  a  pilot  on  a  coast  and  at  a  bay  where  a  pilot  was 
scarce  needed  once  a  year.  But  he  was  known  as  Gas- 
pard  the  pilot,  and  on  those  rare  occasions  when  a  ves- 
sel did  anchor  in  the  bay,  he  performed  his  duties  with 
such  a  certainty  as  to  leave  unguessed  how  many  death- 
traps crouched  near  that  shore.  At  such  times,  however, 
Gaspard  seemed  to  look  twenty  years  younger.  A  light 
would  come  into  his  face,  a  stalwart  kind  of  pride  sit 
on  him,  though  beneath  there  lurked  a  strange,  sardonic 
look  in  his  deep  eyes — such  a  grim  furtiveness  as  though 
he  should  say :  "  If  I  but  twist  my  ringer  we  are  all  for  the 
fishes."  But  he  kept  his  secret  and  waited.  He  never 
seemed  to  tire  of  looking  down  the  gulf,  as  though  ex- 
pecting some  ship.  If  one  appeared  and  passed  on,  he 
merely  nodded  his  head,  hung  up  his  glass,  returned  to 
his  work,  or,  sitting  by  the  door,  talked  to  himself  in 
low,  strange  tones.  If  one  came  near,  making  as  if  it 
would  enter  the  bay,  a  hungry  joy  possessed  him.  If 
a  storm  was  on,  the  joy  was  the  greater.  No  pilot  ever 
ventured  to  a  ship  on  such  rough  seas  as  Gaspard 
ventured  for  small  profit  or  glory. 

Behind  it  all  lay  his  secret.  There  came  one  day  a 
man  who  discovered  it. 

It  was  Pierre,  the  half-breed  adventurer.  There  was 
no  point  in  all  the  wild  northland  which  Pierre  had  not 
touched.  He  loved  it  as  he  loved  the  game  of  life.  He 
never  said  so  of  it,  but  he  never  said  so  of  the  game  of 
life,  and  he  played  it  with  a  deep  subterranean  joy.  He 
had  had  his  way  with  the  musk-ox  in  the  Arctic  Circle; 
with  the  white  bear  at  the  foot  of  Alaskan  Hills;  with 
the  seal  in  Baffin's  Bay;  with  the  puma  on  the  slope  of 
the  Pacific;  and  now  at  last  he  had  come  upon  the  trail 
of  Labrador.  Its  sternness,  its  moodiness  pleased  him. 
He  smiled  at  it  the  comprehending  smile  of  the  man  who 


THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR        251 

has  fingered  the  nerves  and  the  heart  of  men  and  things. 
As  a  traveller,  wandering  through  a  prison,  looks  upon 
its  grim  cells  and  dungeons  with  the  eye  of  unembar- 
rassed freedom,  finding  no  direful  significance  in  the 
clank  of  its  iron,  so  Pierre  travelled  down  with  a  hand- 
ful of  Indians  through  the  hard  fastnesses  of  that 
country,  and,  at  last,  alone,  came  upon  the  bay  of  Belle 
Amour. 

There  was  in  him  some  antique  touch  of  refinement 
and  temperament  which,  in  all  his  evil  days  and  deeds 
and  moments  of  shy  nobility,  could  find  its  way  into 
the  souls  of  men  with  whom  the  world  had  had  an  awk- 
ward hour.  He  was  a  man  of  little  speech,  but  he  had 
that  rare  persuasive  penetration  which  unlocked  the 
doors  of  trouble,  despair,  and  tragedy.  Men  who  would 
never  have  confessed  to  a  priest  confessed  to  him.  In 
his  every  fibre  was  the  granite  of  the  Indian  nature, 
wrhich  looked  upon  punishment  with  stoic  satisfaction. 

In  the  heart  of  Labrador  he  had  heard  of  Gaspard, 
and  had  travelled  to  that  point  in  the  compass  where 
he  could  find  him.  One  day  when  the  sun  was  fighting 
hard  to  make  a  pathway  of  light  in  front  of  Gaspard 's 
hut,  Pierre  rounded  a  corner  of  the  cliff  and  fronted 
Gaspard  as  he  sat  there,  his  eyes  idling  gloomily  with 
the  sea.  They  said  little  to  each  other — in  new  lands 
hospitality  has  not  need  of  speech.  When  Gaspard 
and  Pierre  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes  they  knew  that 
one  word  between  them  was  as  a  hundred  with  other 
men.  The  heart  knows  its  confessor,  and  the  confessor 
knows  the  shadowed  eye  that  broods  upon  some  ghostly 
secret;  and  when  these  are  face  to  face  there  comes  a 
merciless  concision  of  understanding. 

"From  where  away?"  said  Gaspard,  as  he  handed 
some  tobacco  to  Pierre. 


252  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"From  Hudson's  Bay,  down  the  Red  Wolf  Plains, 
along  the  hills,  across  the  coast  country,  here." 

"Why?"  Gaspard  eyed  Pierre's  small  kit  with  curi- 
osity; then  flung  up  a  piercing,  furtive  look.  Pierre 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

' '  Adventure,  adventure, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  The  land ' ' 
— he  pointed  north,  west,  and  east — "is  all  mine.  I 
am  the  citizen  of  every  village  and  every  camp  of  the 
great  north." 

The  old  man  turned  his  head  towards  a  spot  up  the 
shore  of  Belle  Amour,  before  he  turned  to  Pierre  again, 
with  a  strange  look,  and  said:  "Where  do  you  go?" 

Pierre  followed  his  gaze  to  that  point  in  the  shore,  felt 
the  undercurrent  of  vague  meaning  in  his  voice,  guessed 
what  was  his  cue,  and  said:  "Somewhere,  sometime; 
but  now  only  Belle  Amour.  I  have  had  a  long  travel. 
I  have  found  an  open  door.  I  will  stay — if  you  please — 
hein?  If  you  please?" 

Gaspard  brooded.  "It  is  lonely,"  he  replied.  "This 
day  it  is  all  bright;  the  sun  shines  and  the  little  gay 
waves  crinkle  to  the  shore.  But,  mon  Dieu!  sometimes 
it  is  all  black  and  ugly  with  storm.  The  waves  come 
grinding,  booming  in  along  the  gridiron  rocks" — he 
smiled  a  grim  smile — "break  through  the  teeth  of  the 
reefs,  and  split  with  a  roar  of  hell  upon  the  cliff.  And 
all  the  time,  and  all  the  time," — his  voice  got  low  with 
a  kind  of  devilish  joy, — "there  is  a  finger — Jesu!  you 
should  see  that  finger  of  the  devil  stretch  up  from  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  waiting,  waiting  for  something  to 
come  out  of  the  storm.  And  then — and  then  you  can 
hear  a  wild  laugh  come  out  of  the  land,  come  up  from 
the  sea,  come  down  from  the  sky — all  waiting,  waiting 
for  something!  No,  no,  you  would  not  stay  here." 

Pierre  looked  again  to  that  point  in  the  shore  towards 


THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR        253 

which  Gaspard's  eyes  had  been  cast.  The  sun  was  shin- 
ing hard  just  then,  and  the  stern,  sharp  rocks,  tumbling 
awkwardly  back  into  the  waste  behind,  had  an  insolent 
harshness.  Day  perched  garishly  there.  Yet  now  and 
then  the  staring  light  was  broken  by  sudden  and  deep 
shadows — great  fissures  in  the  rocks  and  lanes  between. 
These  gave  Pierre  a  suggestion,  though  why,  he  could 
not  say.  He  knew  that  when  men  live  lives  of  patient, 
gloomy  vigilance,  they  generally  have  something  to 
watch  and  guard.  Why  should  Gaspard  remain  here 
year  after  year?  His  occupation  was  nominally  a  pilot 
in  a  bay  rarely  touched  by  vessels,  and  then  only  for 
shelter.  A  pilot  need  not  take  his  daily  life  with  such 
brooding  seriousness.  In  body  he  was  like  flexible 
metal,  all  cord  and  muscle.  He  gave  the  impression  of 
bigness,  though  he  was  small  hi  stature.  Yet,  as  Pierre 
studied  him,  he  saw  something  that  made  him  guess 
the  man  had  had  about  him  one  day  a  woman,  perhaps 
a  child;  no  man  could  carry  that  look  unless.  If  a 
woman  has  looked  at  you  from  day  to  day,  something 
of  her,  some  reflection  of  her  face,  passes  to  yours  and 
stays  there;  and  if  a  child  has  held  your  hand  long,  or 
hung  about  your  knees,  it  gives  you  a  kind  of  gentle 
wariness  as  you  step  about  your  home. 

Pierre  knew  that  a  man  will  cherish  with  a  deep, 
eternal  purpose  a  memory  of  a  woman  or  a  child,  when, 
no  matter  how  compelling  his  cue  to  remember  where 
a  man  is  concerned,  he  will  yield  it  up  in  the  end  to  time. 
Certain  speculations  arranged  themselves  definitely  in 
Pierre's  mind:  there  was  a  woman,  maybe  a  child  once; 
there  was  some  sorrowful  mystery  about  them;  there 
was  a  point  in  the  shore  that  had  held  the  old  man's 
eyes  strangely;  there  was  the  bay  with  that  fantastic 
"finger  of  the  devil"  stretching  up  from  the  bowels  of 


254  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

the  world.  Behind  the  symbol  lay  the  Thing — what 
was  it? 

Long  tune  he  looked  out  upon  the  gulf,  then  his  eyes 
drew  into  the  bay  and  stayed  there,  seeing  mechanically, 
as  a  hundred  fancies  went  through  his  mind.  There 
were  reefs  of  which  the  old  man  had  spoken.  He  could 
guess  from  the  colour  and  movement  of  the  water  where 
they  were.  The  finger  of  the  devil — was  it  not  real? 
A  finger  of  rock,  waiting  as  the  old  man  said — for 
what? 

Gaspard  touched  his  shoulder.  He  rose  and  went 
with  him  into  the  gloomy  cabin.  They  ate  and  drank 
in  silence.  When  the  meal  was  finished  they  sat  smoking 
till  night  fell.  Then  the  pilot  lit  a  fire,  and  drew  his 
rough  chair  to  the  door.  Though  it  was  only  late  sum- 
mer, it  was  cold  hi  the  shade  of  the  cliff.  Long  tune 
they  sat.  Now  and  again  Pierre  intercepted  the  quick, 
elusive  glance  of  his  silent  host.  Once  the  pilot  took 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  leaned  his  hands  on  his 
knees  as  if  about  to  speak.  But  he  did  not. 

Pierre  saw  that  the  time  was  ripe  for  speech.  So  he 
said,  as  though  he  knew  something:  "It  is  a  long  time 
since  it  happened?" 

Gaspard,  brooding,  answered:  "Yes,  a  long  time — too 
long."  Then,  as  if  suddenly  awakened  to  the  strange- 
ness of  the  question,  he  added,  in  a  startled  way :  "What 
do  you  know?  Tell  me  quick  what  you  know." 

"I  know  nothing  except  what  comes  to  me  here, 
pilot," — Pierre  touched  his  forehead, — "but  there  is  a 
thing — I  am  not  sure  what.  There  was  a  woman — 
perhaps  a  child;  there  is  something  on  the  shore;  there 
is  a  hidden  point  of  rock  in  the  bay;  and  you  are  wait- 
ing for  a  ship — for  the  ship,  and  it  does  not  come — isn't 
that  so?" 


THE   PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR        255 

Gaspard  got  to  his  feet,  and  peered  into  Pierre's 
immobile  face.  Their  eyes  met. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  said  the  pilot,  his  hand  catching  the 
smoke  away  from  between  them,  "you  are  a  droll  man; 
you  have  a  wonderful  mind.  You  are  cold  like  ice,  and 
still  there  is  in  you  a  look  of  fire." 

"Sit  down,"  answered  Pierre  quietly,  "and  tell  me 
all.  Perhaps  I  could  think  it  out  little  by  little;  but 
it  might  take  too  long — and  what  is  the  good?" 

Slowly  Gaspard  obeyed.  Both  hands  rested  on  his 
knees,  and  he  stared  abstractedly  into  the  fire.  Pierre 
thrust  forward  the  tobacco-bag.  His  hand  lifted,  took 
the  tobacco,  and  then  his  eyes  came  keenly  to  Pierre's. 
He  was  about  to  speak. 

"Fill  your  pipe  first,"  said  the  half-breed  coolly. 

The  old  man  did  so  abstractedly.  When  the  pipe 
was  lighted,  Pierre  said:  "Now!" 

"I  have  never  told  the  story,  never — not  even  to 
Pere  Corraine.  But  I  know,  I  have  it  here  " — he  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  as  did  Pierre — "that  you  will  be 
silent."  Pierre  nodded. 

"She  was  fine  to  see.  Her  eyes  were  black  as  beads; 
and  when  she  laugh  it  was  all  music.  I  was  so  happy! 
We  lived  on  the  island  of  the  Aux  Coudres,  far  up  there 
at  Quebec.  It  was  a  wild  place.  There  were  smugglers 
and  others  there — maybe  pirates.  But  she  was  like  a 
saint  of  God  among  all.  I  was  lucky  man.  I  was  pilot, 
and  took  ships  out  to  sea,  and  brought  them  in  safe  up 
the  gulf.  It  is  not  all  easy,  for  there  are  mad  places. 
Once  or  twice  when  a  wild  storm  was  on  I  could  not 
land  at  Cap  Martin,  and  was  carried  out  to  sea  and  over 
to  France.  .  .  .  Well,  that  was  not  so  bad;  there  was 
plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  nothing  to  do.  But  when  I 
marry  it  was  differen'.  I  was  afraid  of  being  carried 


256  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

away  and  leave  my  wife — the  belle  Mamette — alone 
long  time.  You  see,  I  was  young,  and  she  was  ver' 
beautiful." 

He  paused  and  caught  his  hand  over  his  mouth  as 
though  to  stop  a  sound :  the  lines  of  his  face  deepened. 
Presently  he  puffed  his  pipe  so  hard  that  the  smoke  and 
the  sparks  hid  him  in  a  cloud  through  which  he  spoke. 
"When  the  child  was  born — Holy  Mother!  have  you 
ever  felt  the  hand  of  your  own  child  in  yours,  and  looked 
at  the  mother,  as  she  lies  there  all  pale  and  shining  be- 
tween the  quilts?" 

He  paused.    Pierre's  eyes  dropped  to  the  floor. 

Gaspard  continued:  "Well,  it  is  a  great  thing,  and 
the  babe  was  born  quick  one  day  when  we  were  all  alone. 
A  thing  like  that  gives  you  wonder.  Then  I  could  not 
bear  to  go  away  with  the  ships,  and  at  last  I  said: 
'One  month,  and  then  the  ice  fills  the  gulf,  and  there 
will  be  no  more  ships  for  the  winter.  That  will  be  the 
last  for  me.  I  will  be  pilot  no  more — no.'  She  was  ver' 
happy,  and  a  laugh  ran  over  her  little  white  teeth.  M on 
Dieu,  I  stop  that  laugh  pretty  quick — in  fine  way!" 

He  seemed  for  an  instant  to  forget  his  great  trouble, 
and  his  face  went  to  warm  sunshine  like  a  boy's;  but 
it  was  as  sun  playing  on  a  scarred  fortress.  Presently 
the  light  faded  out  of  his  face  and  left  it  like  iron 
smouldering  from  the  bellows. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  see  there  was  a  ship  to  go 
almost  the  last  of  the  season,  and  I  said  to  my  wife, 
'Mamette,  it  is  the  last  time  I  shall  be  pilot.  You  must 
come  with  me  and  bring  the  child,  and  they  will  put  us 
off  at  Father  Point,  and  then  we  will  come  back  slow 
to  the  village  on  the  good  Ste.  Anne  and  live  there  ver' 
quiet.'  When  I  say  that  to  her  she  laugh  back  at  me 
and  say,  'Beau!  beau!'  and  she  laugh  hi  the  child's 


THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR        257 

eyes,  and  speak — nom  de  Dieu!  she  speak  so  gentle  and 
light — and  say  to  the  child:  'Would  you  like  go  with 
your  father  a  pretty  journey  down  the  gulf?'  And  the 
little  child  laugh  back  at  her,  and  shake  its  soft  brown 
hair  over  its  head.  They  were  both  so  glad  to  go.  I 
went  to  the  captain  of  the  ship.  I  say  to  him,  'I  will 
take  my  wife  and  my  little  child,  and  when  we  come 
to  Father  Point  we  will  go  ashore.'  Bien,  the  captain 
laugh  big,  and  it  was  all  right.  That  was  long  tune 
ago — long  time." 

He  paused  again,  threw  his  head  back  with  a  de- 
spairing toss,  his  chin  dropped  on  his  breast,  his  hands 
clasped  between  his  knees,  and  his  pipe,  laid  beside  him 
on  the  bench,  was  forgotten. 

Pierre  quietly  put  some  wood  upon  the  fire,  opened 
his  kit,  drew  out  from  it  a  little  flask  of  rum  and  laid  it 
upon  the  bench  beside  the  pipe.  A  long  time  passed. 
At  last  Gaspard  roused  himself  with  a  long  sigh,  turned 
and  picked  up  the  pipe,  but,  seeing  the  flask  of  rum, 
lifted  it,  and  took  one  long  swallow  before  he  began  to 
fill  and  light  his  pipe.  There  came  into  his  voice  some- 
thing of  iron  hardness  as  he  continued  his  story. 

"  Alors,  we  went  into  the  boat.  As  we  travelled  down 
the  gulf  a  great  storm  came  out  of  the  north.  We 
thought  it  would  pass,  but  it  stayed  on.  When  we  got 
to  the  last  place  where  the  pilot  could  land,  the  waves 
were  running  like  hills  to  the  shore,  and  no  boat  could 
live  between  the  ship  and  the  point.  For  myself,  it  was 
nothing — I  am  a  strong  man  and  a  great  swimmer. 
But  when  a  man  has  a  wife  and  a  child,  it  is  differen'. 
So  the  ship  went  on  out  into  the  ocean  with  us.  Well, 
we  laugh  a  little,  and  think  what  a  great  brain  I  had 
when  I  say  to  my  wife :  '  Come  and  bring  the  child  for 
the  last  voyage  of  Gaspard  the  pilot.'  You  see,  there 


258  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

we  were  on  board  the  ship,  everything  ver'  good,  plenty 
to  eat,  much  to  drink,  to  smoke,  all  the  time.  The 
sailors,  they  were  ver'  funny,  and  to  see  them  take  my 
child,  my  little  Babette,  and  play  with  her  as  she  roll 
on  the  deck — merci,  it  was  gran' !  So  I  say  to  my  wife : 
'  This  will  be  bon  voyage  for  all.'  But  a  woman,  she  has 
not  the  mind  like  a  man.  When  a  man  laugh  in  the  sun 
and  think  nothing  of  evil,  a  woman  laugh  too,  but  there 
come  a  little  quick  sob  to  her  lips.  You  ask  her  why, 
and  she  cannot  tell.  She  know  that  something  will 
happen.  A  man  has  great  idee,  a  woman  great  sight. 
So  my  wife,  she  turn  her  face  away  all  sad  from  me  then, 
and  she  was  right — she  was  right! 

"One  day  in  the  ocean  we  pass  a  ship — only  two  days 
out.  The  ship  signal  us.  I  say  to  my  wife:  'Ha,  ha! 
now  we  can  go  back,  maybe,  to  the  good  Ste.  Anne.' 
Well,  the  ships  come  close  together,  and  the  captain  of 
the  other  ship  he  have  something  importan'  with  ours. 
He  ask  if  there  will  be  chance  of  pilot  into  the  gulf, 
because  it  is  the  first  time  that  he  visit  Quebec.  The 
captain  swing  round  and  call  to  me.  I  go  up.  I  bring 
my  wife  and  my  little  Babette;  and  that  was  how  we 
sail  back  to  the  great  gulf. 

"When  my  wife  step  on  board  that  ship  I  see  her  face 
get  pale,  and  something  strange  in  her  eyes.  I  ask  her 
why;  she  do  not  know,  but  she  hug  Babette  close  to 
her  breast  with  a  kind  of  fear.  A  long,  low,  black  ship, 
it  could  run  through  every  sea.  Soon  the  captain  come 
to  me  and  say:  'You  know  the  coast,  the  north  coast  of 
the  gulf,  from  Labrador  to  Quebec?'  I  tell  him  yes. 
'Well,'  he  say,  'do  you  know  of  a  bay  where  few  ships 
enter  safe?'  I  think  a  moment  and  I  tell  him  of  Belle 
Amour.  Then  he  say,  ver'  quick:  'That  is  the  place; 
we  will  go  to  the  bay  of  Belle  Amour.'  He  was  ver'  kind 


THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR        259 

to  my  face;  he  give  my  wife  and  child  good  berth, 
plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  and  once  more  I  laugh;  but 
my  wife — there  was  in  her  face  something  I  not  under- 
stan'.  It  is  not  easy  to  understan'  a  woman.  We  got 
to  the  bay.  I  had  pride :  I  was  young.  I  was  the  best 
pilot  in  the  St.  Lawrence,  and  I  took  in  the  ship  between 
the  reefs  of  the  bay,  where  they  run  like  a  gridiron,  and 
I  laugh  when  I  swing  the  ship  all  ver'  quick  to  the  right, 
after  we  pass  the  reefs,  and  make  a  curve  round — some- 
thing. The  captain  pull  me  up  and  ask  why.  But  I 
never  tell  him  that.  I  not  know  why  I  never  tell  him. 
But  the  good  God  put  the  thought  into  my  head,  and 
I  keep  it  to  this  hour,  and  it  never  leave  me,  never — 
never!" 

He  slowly  rubbed  his  hands  up  and  down  his  knees, 
took  another  sip  of  rum,  and  went  on: 

"I  brought  the  ship  close  up  to  the  shore,  and  we  go 
to  anchor.  All  that  night  I  see  the  light  of  a  fire  on 
the  shore.  So  I  slide  down  and  swim  to  the  shore. 
Under  a  little  arch  of  rocks  something  was  going  on. 
I  could  not  tell,  but  I  know  from  the  sound  that  they 
are  to  bury  something.  Then,  all  at  once,  it  come  to 
me — this  is  a  pirate  ship!  I  come  closer  and  closer  to 
the  light,  and  then  I  see  a  dreadful  thing.  There  was  the 
captain  and  the  mate,  and  another.  They  turn  quick 
upon  two  other  men — two  sailors — and  kill  them.  Then 
they  take  the  bodies  and  wound  them  round  some  casks 
in  a  great  hole,  and  cover  it  all  up.  I  understan'.  It  is 
the  old  legend  that  a  dead  body  will  keep  gold  all  to 
itself,  so  that  no  one  shall  find  it.  Mon  Dieu!" — his 
voice  dropped  low  and  shook  in  his  throat — "I  give 
one  little  cry  at  the  sight,  and  then  they  see  me.  There 
were  three.  They  were  armed;  they  sprang  upon  me 
and  tied  me.  Then  they  fling  me  beside  the  fire, 


260  A  ROMANY  OF  THE   SNOWS 

and  they  cover  up  the  hole  with  the  gold  and  the 
bodies. 

"When  that  was  done  they  take  me  back  to  the  ship, 
then  with  pistols  at  my  head  they  make  me  pilot  the 
ship  out  into  the  bay  again.  As  we  went  they  make  a 
chart  of  the  place.  We  travel  along  the  coast  for  one 
day;  and  then  a  great  storm  of  snow  come,  and  the  cap- 
tain say  to  me:  'Steer  us  into  harbour.'  When  we  are 
at  anchor,  they  take  me  and  my  wife,  and  little  child 
and  put  us  ashore  alone,  with  a  storm  and  the  bare 
rocks  and  the  dreadful  night,  and  leave  us  there,  that 
we  shall  never  tell  the  secret  of  the  gold.  That  night 
my  wife  and  my  child  die  in  the  snow." 

Here  his  voice  became  strained  and  slow.  "  After  a 
long  time  I  work  my  way  to  an  Injin  camp.  For  months 
I  was  a  child  in  strength,  all  my  flesh  gone.  When  the 
spring  come  I  went  and  dug  a  deeper  grave  for  my  wife, 
and  p'tite  Babette,  and  leave  them  there,  where  they 
had  died.  But  I  come  to  the  bay  of  Belle  Amour,  be- 
cause I  knew  some  day  the  man  with  the  devil's  heart 
would  come  back  for  his  gold,  and  then  would  arrive 
my  time — the  hour  of  God!" 

He  paused.  "The  hour  of  God,"  he  repeated  slowly. 
"I  have  waited  twenty  years,  but  he  has  not  come;  yet 
I  know  that  he  will  come.  I  feel  it  here" — he  touched 
his  forehead;  "I  know  it  here" — he  tapped  his  heart. 
"Once  where  my  heart  was,  there  is  only  one  thing,  and 
it  is  hate,  and  I  know — I  know — that  he  will  come.  And 
when  he  comes — "  He  raised  his  arm  high  above  his 
head,  laughed  wildly,  paused,  let  the  hand  drop,  and 
then  fell  to  staring  into  the  fire. 

Pierre  again  placed  the  flask  of  rum  between  his 
fingers.  But  Gaspard  put  it  down,  caught  his  arms 
together  across  his  breast,  and  never  turned  his  face 


THE   PILOT  OF   BELLE  AMOUR        261 

from  the  fire.  Midnight  came,  and  still  they  sat  there 
silent.  No  man  had  a  greater  gift  in  waiting  than  Pierre. 
Many  a  time  his  life  had  been  a  swivel,  upon  which  the 
comedies  and  tragedies  of  others  had  turned.  He  neither 
loved  nor  feared  men:  sometimes  he  pitied  them.  He 
pitied  Gaspard.  He  knew  what  it  is  to  have  the  heart- 
strings stretched  out,  one  by  one,  by  the  hand  of  a 
Gorgon,  while  the  feet  are  chained  to  the  rocking 
world. 

Not  till  the  darkest  hour  of  the  morning  did  the  two 
leave  their  silent  watch  and  go  to  bed.  The  sun  had 
crept  stealthily  to  the  door  of  the  hut  before  they  rose 
again.  Pierre  laid  his  hand  upon  Gaspard's  shoulder 
as  they  travelled  out  into  the  morning,  and  said:  "My 
friend,  I  understand.  Your  secret  is  safe  with  me;  you 
shall  take  me  to  the  place  where  the  gold  is  buried,  but 
it  shall  wait  there  until  the  tune  is  ripe.  What  is  gold 
to  me?  Nothing.  To  find  gold — that  is  the  trick  of  any 
fool.  To  win  it  or  to  earn  it  is  the  only  game.  Let  the 
bodies  rot  about  the  gold.  You  and  I  will  wait.  I  have 
many  friends  in  the  northland,  but  there  is  no  face  in 
any  tent  door  looking  for  me.  You  are  alone:  well,  I 
will  stay  with  you.  Who  can  tell — perhaps  it  is  near 
at  hand — the  hour  of  God!" 

The  huge  hard  hand  of  Gaspard  swallowed  the  small 
hand  of  Pierre,  and,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper, 
he  answered:  "You  shall  be  my  comrade.  I  have  told 
you  all,  as  I  have  never  told  it  to  my  God.  I  do  not 
fear  you  about  the  gold — it  is  all  cursed.  You  are  not 
like  other  men;  I  will  trust  you.  Some  time  you  also 
have  had  the  throat  of  a  man  hi  your  fingers,  and 
watched  the  life  spring  out  of  his  eyes,  and  leave  them 
all  empty.  When  men  feel  like  that,  what  is  gold — what 
is  anything!  There  is  food  in  the  bay  and  on  the  hills. 


262  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

We  will  live  together,  you  and  I.  Come  and  I  will  show 
you  the  place  of  hell." 

Together  they  journeyed  down  the  crag  and  along 
the  beach  to  the  place  where  the  gold,  the  grim  god  of 
this  world,  was  fortressed  and  bastioned  by  its  victims. 

The  days  went  on;  the  weeks  and  months  ambled 
by.  Still  the  two  lived  together.  Little  speech  passed 
between  them,  save  that  speech  of  comrades,  who  use 
more  the  sign  than  the  tongue.  It  seemed  to  Pierre 
after  a  tune  that  Gaspard's  wrongs  were  almost  his  own. 
Yet  with  this  difference :  he  must  stand  by  and  let  the 
avenger  be  the  executioner;  he  must  be  the  spectator 
merely. 

Sometimes  he  went  inland  and  brought  back  moose, 
caribou,  and  the  skins  of  other  animals,  thus  assisting 
Gaspard  in  his  dealings  with  the  great  Company.  But 
again  there  were  days  when  he  did  nothing  but  lie  on 
the  skins  at  the  hut's  door,  or  saunter  in  the  shadows 
and  the  suinjght.  Not  since  he  had  come  to  Gaspard 
had  a  ship  passed  the  bay  or  sought  to  anchor  in  it. 

But  there  came  a  day.  It  was  the  early  summer. 
The  snow  had  shrunk  from  the  ardent  sun,  and  had 
swilled  away  to  the  gulf,  leaving  the  tender  grass  show- 
ing. The  moss  on  the  rocks  had  changed  from  brown  to 
green,  and  the  vagrant  birds  had  fluttered  back  from 
the  south.  The  winter's  furs  had  been  carried  away  in 
the  early  spring  to  the  Company's  post,  by  a  detach- 
ment of  coureurs  de  bois.  There  was  little  left  to  do. 
This  morning  they  sat  in  the  sun  looking  out  upon  the 
gulf.  Presently  Gaspard  rose  and  went  into  the  hut. 
Pierre's  eyes  still  lazily  scanned  the  water.  As  he  looked 
he  saw  a  vessel  rounding  a  point  in  the  distance.  Sup- 
pose this  was  the  ship  of  the  pirate  and  murderer?  The 
fancy  diverted  him.  His  eyes  drew  away  from  the  in- 


THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR        263 

distinct  craft — first  to  the  reefs,  and  then  to  that  spot 
where  the  colossal  needle  stretched  up  under  the  water. 

It  was  as  Pierre  speculated.  Brigond,  the  French 
pirate,  who  had  hidden  his  gold  at  such  shameless  cost, 
was,  after  twenty  years  in  the  galleys  at  Toulon,  come 
back  to  find  his  treasure.  He  had  doubted  little  that  he 
would  find  it.  The  lonely  spot,  the  superstition  con- 
cerning dead  bodies,  the  supposed  doom  of  Gaspard,  all 
ran  in  his  favour.  His  little  craft  came  on,  manned  by 
as  vile  a  mob  as  ever  mutinied  or  built  a  wrecker's  fire. 

When  the  ship  got  within  a  short  distance  of  the  bay, 
Pierre  rose  and  called.  GaSpard  came  to  the  door. 

"  There's  work  to  do,  pilot,"  he  said.  Gaspard  felt 
the  thrill  of  his  voice,  and  flashed  a  look  out  to  the  gulf. 
He  raised  his  hands  with  a  gasp.  "I  feel  it,"  he  said: 
"it  is  the  hour  of  God!" 

He  started  to  the  rope  ladder  of  the  cliff,  then  wheeled 
suddenly  and  came  back  to  Pierre.  "You  must  not 
come,"  he  said.  "Stay  here  and  watch;  you  shall  see 
great  things."  His  voice  had  a  round,  deep  tone.  He 
caught  both  Pierre's  hands  in  his  and  added:  "It  is 
for  my  wife  and  child;  I  have  no  fear.  Adieu,  my 
friend!  When  you  see  the  good  P£re  Corraine  say  to 
him — but  no,  it  is  no  matter — there  is  One  greater!" 

Once  again  he  caught  Pierre  hard  by  the  shoulder, 
then  ran  to  the  cliff  and  swung  down  the  ladder.  All 
at  once  there  shot  through  Pierre's  body  an  impulse, 
and  his  eyes  lighted  with  excitement.  He  sprang  tow- 
ards the  cliff.  "Gaspard,  come  back!"  he  called;  then 
paused,  and,  with  an  enigmatical  smile,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  drew  back,  and  waited. 

The  vessel  was  hove  to  outside  the  bay,  as  if  hesitat- 
ing. Brigond  was  considering  whether  it  were  better, 
with  his  scant  chart,  to  attempt  the  bay,  or  to  take  small 


264  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

boats  and  make  for  the  shore.  He  remembered  the 
reefs,  but  he  did  not  know  of  the  needle  of  rock. 

Presently  he  saw  Gaspard's  boat  coming.  "Someone 
who  knows  the  bay,"  he  said;  "I  see  a  hut  on  the  cliff." 

"Hello,  who  are  you?"  Brigond  called  down  as 
Gaspard  drew  alongside. 

"A  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  man,"  answered  Gas- 
pard. 

"How  many  are  there  of  you?" 

"Myself  alone." 

"Can  you  pilot  us  in?" 

"I  know  the  way." 

"Come  up." 

Gaspard  remembered  Brigond,  and  he  veiled  his  eyes 
lest  the  hate  he  felt  should  reveal  him.  No  one  could 
have  recognised  him  as  the  young  pilot  of  twenty  years 
before.  Then  his  face  was  cheerful  and  bright,  and  in 
his  eye  was  the  fire  of  youth.  Now  a  thick  beard  and 
furrowing  lines  hid  all  the  look  of  the  past.  His  voice, 
too,  was  desolate  and  distant. 

Brigond  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "How  long 
have  you  lived  off  there?"  he  asked,  as  he  jerked  his 
finger  towards  the  shore. 

"A  good  many  years." 

"Did  anything  strange  ever  happen  there?" 

Gaspard  felt  his  heart  contract  again,  as  it  did  when 
Brigond's  hand  touched  his  shoulder. 

"Nothing  strange  is  known." 

A  vicious  joy  came  into  Brigond's  face.  His  fingers 
opened  and  shut.  "Safe,  by  the  holy  heaven!"  he 
grunted. 

"'By  the  holy  heaven!'"  repeated  Gaspard,  under 
his  breath. 

They  walked  forward.    Almost  as  they  did  so  there 


THE  PILOT  OF  BELLE  AMOUR        265 

came  a  big  puff  of  wind  across  the  bay:  one  of  those 
sudden  currents  that  run  in  from  the  ocean  and  the  gulf 
stream.  Gaspard  saw,  and  smiled.  In  a  moment  the 
vessel's  nose  was  towards  the  bay,  and  she  sailed  in, 
dipping  a  shoulder  to  the  sudden  foam.  On  she  came 
past  reef  and  bar,  a  pretty  tumbril  to  the  slaughter. 
The  spray  feathered  up  to  her  sails,  the  sun  caught  her 
on  deck  and  beam;  she  was  running  dead  for  the  needle 
of  rock. 

Brigond  stood  at  Gaspard's  side.  All  at  once  Gas- 
pard made  the  sacred  gesture  and  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as 
if  only  to  himself:  "Pardon,  mon  capitaine,  mon  Jesu!" 
Then  he  turned  triumphantly,  fiercely,  upon  Brigond. 
The  pirate  was  startled.  " What's  the  matter?"  he 
said. 

Not  Gaspard,  but  the  needle  rock  replied.  There  was 
a  sudden  shock;  the  vessel  stood  still  and  shivered; 
lurched,  swung  shoulder  downwards,  reeled  and  strug- 
gled. Instantly  she  began  to  sink. 

' '  The  boats !  lower  the  boats ! "  cried  Brigond.  ' '  This 
cursed  fool  has  run  us  on  a  rock!" 

The  waves,  running  high,  now  swept  over  the  deck. 
Brigond  started  aft,  but  Gaspard  sprang  before  him. 
"Stand  back!"  he  called.  "Where  you  are  you  die!" 

Brigond,  wild  with  terror  and  rage,  ran  at  him.  Gas- 
pard caught  him  as  he  came.  With  vast  strength  he 
lifted  him  and  dashed  him  to  the  deck.  "Die  there, 
murderer!"  he  cried. 

Brigond  crouched  upon  the  deck,  looking  at  him  with 
fearful  eyes.  "Who — are  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  Gaspard  the  pilot.  I  have  waited  for  you 
twenty  years.  Up  there,  in  the  snow,  my  wife  and  child 
died.  Here,  in  this  bay,  you  die. " 

There  was  noise  and  racketing  behind  them,  but  they 


266  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

two  heard  nothing.  The  one  was  alone  with  his  terror, 
the  other  with  his  soul.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  the  vessel 
heaved,  then  went  suddenly  still. 

Gaspard  understood.  One  look  at  his  victim,  then 
he  made  the  sacred  gesture  again,  and  folded  his  arms. 

Pierre,  from  the  height  of  the  cliff,  looking  down,  saw 
the  vessel  dip  at  the  bow,  and  then  the  waters  divided 
and  swallowed  it  up. 

" Gaspard  should  have  lived,"  he  said.  "But — who 
can  tell!  Perhaps  Mamette  was  waiting  for  him." 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "NINETY-NINE" 

I.    THE  SEARCH 

SHE  was  only  a  big  gulf  yawl,  which  a  man  and  a  boy 
could  manage  at  a  pinch,  with  old-fashioned  high  bul- 
warks, but  lying  clean  in  the  water.  She  had  a  tolerable 
record  for  speed,  and  for  other  things  so  important  that 
they  were  now  and  again  considered  by  the  Govern- 
ment at  Quebec.  She  was  called  the  Ninety-Nine. 
With  a  sense  of  humour  the  cure  had  called  her  so,  after 
an  interview  with  her  owner  and  captain,  Tarboe  the 
smuggler.  When  he  said  to  Tarboe  at  Angel  Point  that 
he  had  come  to  seek  the  one  sheep  that  was  lost,  leaving 
behind  him  the  other  ninety-and-nine  within  the  fold 
at  Isle  of  Days,  Tarboe  had  replied  that  it  was  a  mis- 
take— he  was  the  ninety-nine,  for  he  needed  no  repent- 
ance, and  immediately  offered  the  cure"  some  old  brown 
brandy  of  fine  flavour.  They  both  had  a  whimsical 
turn,  and  the  cure"  did  not  ask  Tarboe  how  he  came  by 
such  perfect  liquor.  Many  high  in  authority,  it  was 
said,  had  been  soothed  even  to  the  winking  of  an  eye 
when  they  ought  to  have  sent  a  Nordenfeldt  against  the 
Ninety-Nine. 

The  day  after  the  cure"  left  Angel  Point  he  spoke  of 
Tarboe  and  his  craft  as  the  Ninety-and-Nine;  and 
Tarboe  hearing  of  this — for  somehow  he  heard  every- 
thing— immediately  painted  out  the  old  name,  and 
called  her  the  Ninety-Nine,  saying  that  she  had  been  so 
blessed  by  the  cure".  Afterwards  the  Ninety-Nine  had 
an  increasing  reputation  for  exploit  and  daring.  In 

267 


268  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

brief,  Tarboe  and  his  craft  were  smugglers,  and  to  have 
trusted  gossip  would  have  been  to  say  that  the  boat  was 
as  guilty  as  the  man. 

Their  names  were  much  more  notorious  than  sweet; 
and  yet  in  Quebec  men  laughed  as  they  shrugged  their 
shoulders  at  them;  for  as  many  jovial  things  as  evil 
were  told  of  Tarboe.  When  it  became  known  that  a 
dignitary  of  the  Church  had  been  given  a  case  of  splen- 
did wine,  which  had  come  in  a  roundabout  way  to  him, 
men  waked  in  the  night  and  laughed,  to  the  annoyance 
of  their  wives;  for  the  same  dignitary  had  preached  a 
powerful  sermon  against  smugglers  and  the  receivers 
of  stolen  goods.  It  was  a  sad  thing  for  monsignor  to 
be  called  a  Ninety-Niner,  as  were  all  good  friends  of 
Tarboe,  high  and  low.  But  when  he  came  to  know,  af- 
ter the  wine  had  been  leisurely  drunk  and  becomingly 
praised,  he  brought  his  influence  to  bear  in  civic  places, 
so  that  there  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  corner  Tar- 
boe at  last. 

It  was  in  the  height  of  summer,  when  there  was  little 
to  think  of  in  the  old  fortressed  city,  and  a  dart  after 
a  brigand  appealed  to  the  romantic  natures  of  the  idle 
French  folk,  common  and  gentle. 

Through  clouds  of  rank  tobacco  smoke,  and  in  the 
wash  of  their  bean  soup,  the  habitants  discussed  the 
fate  of  " Black  Tarboe,"  and  officers  of  the  garrison  and 
idle  ladies  gossiped  at  the  Citadel  and  at  Murray  Bay 
of  the  freebooting  gentlemen,  whose  Ninety-Nine  had 
furnished  forth  many  a  table  in  the  great  walled  city. 
But  Black  Tarboe  himself  was  down  at  Anticosti,  wait- 
ing for  a  certain  merchantman.  Passing  vessels  saw 
the  Ninety-Nine  anchored  in  an  open  bay,  flying  its 
flag  flippantly  before  the  world — a  rag  of  black  sheep- 
skin, with  the  wool  on,  in  profane  keeping  with  its  name. 


CRUISE  OF  THE  "  NINETY-NINE "     269 

There  was  no  attempt  at  hiding,  no  skulking  behind 
a  point,  or  scurrying  from  observation,  but  an  indolent 
and  insolent  waiting — for  something.  "  Black  Tarboe's 
getting  reckless,"  said  one  captain  coming  in,  and 
another,  going  out,  grinned  as  he  remembered  the  talk 
at  Quebec,  and  thought  of  the  sport  provided  for  the 
Ninety-Nine  when  she  should  come  up  stream;  as  she 
must  in  due  time,  for  Tarboe's  home  was  on  the  Isle  of 
Days,  and  was  he  not  fond  and  proud  of  his  daughter 
Joan  to  a  point  of  folly?  He  was  not  alone  in  his  admira- 
tion of  Joan,  for  the  cure"  at  Isle  of  Days  said  high  things 
of  her. 

Perhaps  this  was  because  she  was  unlike  most  other 
girls,  and  women  too,  in  that  she  had  a  sense  of  humour, 
got  from  having  mixed  with  choice  spirits  who  visited 
her  father  and  carried  out  at  Angel  Point  a  kind  of 
freemasonry,  which  had  few  rites  and  many  charges 
and  countercharges.  She  had  that  almost  impossible 
gift  in  a  woman — the  power  of  telling  a  tale  whimsically. 
It  was  said  that  once,  when  Orvay  Lafarge,  a  new  In- 
spector of  Customs,  came  to  spy  out  the  land,  she  kept 
him  so  amused  by  her  quaint  wit,  that  he  sat  in  the  door- 
way gossiping  with  her,  while  Tarboe  and  two  others 
unloaded  and  safely  hid  away  a  cargo  of  liquors  from 
the  Ninety-Nine.  And  one  of  the  men,  as  cheerful  as 
Joan  herself,  undertook  to  carry  a  little  keg  of  brandy 
into  the  house,  under  the  very  nose  of  the  young  in- 
spector, who  had  sought  to  mark  his  appointment  by 
the  detection  and  arrest  of  Tarboe  single-handed.  He 
had  never  met  Tarboe  or  Tarboe's  daughter  when  he 
made  his  boast.  If  his  superiors  had  known  that  Loce 
Bissonnette,  Tarboe's  jovial  lieutenant,  had  carried  the 
keg  of  brandy  into  the  house  in  a  water-pail,  not  fifteen 
feet  from  where  Lafarge  sat  with  Joan,  they  might  have 


270  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

asked  for  his  resignation.  True,  the  thing  was  cleverly 
done,  for  Bissonnette  made  the  water  spill  quite 
naturally  against  his  leg,  and  when  he  turned  to  Joan 
and  said  in  a  crusty  way  that  he  didn't  care  if  he  spilled 
all  the  water  in  the  pail,  he  looked  so  like  an  unwilling 
water-carrier  that  Joan  for  one  little  moment  did  not 
guess.  When  she  understood,  she  laughed  till  the  tears 
came  to  her  eyes,  and  presently,  because  Lafarge  seemed 
hurt,  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  upon  his 
honour  if  she  told  him  what  it  was.  He  consenting,  she, 
still  laughing,  asked  him  into  the  house,  and  then  drew 
the  keg  from  the  pail,  before  his  eyes,  and,  tapping  it, 
gave  him  some  liquor,  which  he  accepted  without  churl- 
ishness. He  found  nothing  in  this  to  lessen  her  in  his 
eyes,  for  he  knew  that  women  have  no  civic  virtues. 

He  drank  to  their  better  acquaintance  with  few  com- 
punctions; a  matter  not  scandalous,  for  there  is  nothing 
like  a  witty  woman  to  turn  a  man's  head,  and  there 
was  not  so  much  at  stake  after  all.  Tarboe  had  gone 
on  for  many  a  year  till  his  trade  seemed  like  the  ro- 
mance of  law  rather  than  its  breach.  It  is  safe  to  say 
that  Lafarge  was  a  less  sincere  if  not  a  less  blameless 
customs  officer  from  this  tune  forth.  For  humour  on 
a  woman's  lips  is  a  potent  thing,  as  any  man  knows 
that  has  kissed  it  off  in  laughter. 

As  we  said,  Tarboe  lay  rocking  in  a  bight  at  Anti- 
costi,  with  an  empty  hold  and  a  scanty  larder.  Still,  he 
was  in  no  ill-humour,  for  he  smoked  much  and  talked 
more  than  common.  Perhaps  that  was  because  Joan 
was  with  him — an  unusual  thing.  She  was  as  good  a 
sailor  as  her  father,  but  she  did  not  care,  nor  did  he,  to 
have  her  mixed  up  with  him  in  his  smuggling.  So  far 
as  she  knew,  she  had  never  been  on  board  the  Ninety- 
Nine  when  it  carried  a  smuggled  cargo.  She  had  not 


CRUISE  OF  THE   "  NINETY-NINE "     271 

broken  the  letter  of  the  law.  Her  father,  on  asking  her 
to  come  on  this  cruise,  had  said  that  it  was  a  pleasure 
trip  to  meet  a  vessel  in  the  gulf. 

The  pleasure  had  not  been  remarkable,  though  there 
had  been  no  bad  weather.  The  coast  of  Anticosti  is 
cheerless,  and  it  is  possible  even  to  tire  of  sun  and  water. 
True,  Bissonnette  played  the  concertina  with  passing 
sweetness,  and  sang  as  little  like  a  wicked  smuggler  as 
one  might  think.  But  there  were  boundaries  even  to 
that,  as  there  were  to  his  love-making,  which  was,  how- 
ever, so  interwoven  with  laughter  that  it  was  impossible 
to  think  the  matter  serious.  Sometimes  of  an  evening 
Joan  danced  on  deck  to  the  music  of  the  concertina — 
dances  which  had  their  origin  largely  with  herself: 
fantastic,  touched  off  with  some  unexpected  sleight  of 
foot — almost  uncanny  at  times  to  Bissonnette,  whose 
temperament  could  hardly  go  her  distance  when  her 
mood  was  as  this. 

Tarboe  looked  on  with  a  keener  eye  and  under- 
standing, for  was  she  not  bone  of  his  bone  and  flesh  of 
his  flesh?  Who  was  he  that  he  should  fail  to  know  her? 
He  saw  the  moonlight  play  on  her  face  and  hair,  and  he 
waved  his  head  with  the  swaying  of  her  body,  and 
smacked  his  lips  in  thought  of  the  fortune  which, 
smuggling  days  over,  would  carry  them  up  to  St.  Louis 
Street,  Quebec,  there  to  dwell  as  hi  a  garden  of  good 
things. 

After  many  days  had  passed,  Joan  tired  of  the  con- 
certina, of  her  own  dancing,  of  her  father's  tales,  and 
became  inquisitive.  So  at  last  she  said: 

"Father,  what's  all  this  for?" 

Tarboe  did  not  answer  her  at  once,  but,  turning  to 
Bissonnette,  asked  him  to  play  "The  Demoiselle  with 
the  Scarlet  Hose."  It  was  a  gay  little  demoiselle  ac- 


272  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

cording  to  Bissonnette,  and  through  the  creaking,  windy 
gaiety  Tarboe  and  his  daughter  could  talk  without  being 
heard  by  the  musician.  Tarboe  lit  another  cigar — that 
badge  of  greatness  hi  the  eyes  of  his  fellow-habitants, 
and  said: 

"  What's  all  this  for,  Joan?  Why,  we're  here  for  our 
health."  His  teeth  bit  on  the  cigar  with  enjoyable 
emphasis. 

"If  you  don't  tell  me  what's  in  the  wind,  you'll  be 
sorry.  Come,  where's  the  good?  I've  got  as  much  head 
as  you  have,  father,  and — " 

"MonDieu!  Much  more.  That's  not  the  question. 
It  was  to  be  a  surprise  to  you." 

"Pshaw!  You  can  only  have  one  minute  of  surprise, 
and  you  can  have  months  of  fun  looking  out  for  a  thing. 
I  don't  want  surprises;  I  want  what  you've  got — the 
thing  that's  kept  you  good-tempered  while  we  he  here 
like  snails  on  the  rocks." 

"Well,  my  cricket,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel,  here 
you  are.  It  is  a  long  story,  but  I  will  make  it  short. 
Once  there  was  a  pirate  called  Brigond,  and  he  brought 
into  a  bay  on  the  coast  of  Labrador  a  fortune  in  some 
kegs — gold,  gold!  He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  wrapping  around 
it  the  dead  bodies  of  two  men.  It  is  thought  that  one 
can  never  find  it  so.  He  hid  it,  and  sailed  away.  He 
was  captured,  and  sent  to  prison  in  France  for  twenty 
years.  Then  he  come  back  with  a  crew  and  another 
ship,  and  sailed  into  the  bay,  but  his  ship  went  down 
within  sight  of  the  place.  And  so  the  end  of  him  and 
all.  But  wait.  There  was  one  man,  the  mate  on  the 
first  voyage.  He  had  been  put  in  prison  also.  He  did 
not  get  away  as  soon  as  Brigond.  When  he  was  free, 
he  come  to  the  captain  of  a  ship  that  I  know,  the  Free- 
and-Easy,  that  sails  to  Havre,  and  told  him  the  story, 


CRUISE  OF  THE   "  NINETY-NINE "      273 

asking  for  passage  to  Quebec.  The  captain — Gobal — 
did  not  believe  it,  but  said  he  would  bring  him  over  on 
the  next  voyage.  Gobal  come  to  me  and  told  me  all 
there  was  to  tell.  I  said  that  it  was  a  true  story,  for 
Pretty  Pierre  told  me  once  he  saw  Brigond's  ship  go 
down  in  the  bay;  but  he  would  not  say  how,  or  why,  or 
where.  Pierre  would  not  lie  in  a  thing  like  that,  and— 

"Why  didn't  he  get  the  gold  himself?" 

"What  is  money  to  him?  He  is  as  a  gipsy.  To  him 
the  money  is  cursed.  He  said  so.  Eh  bien!  some  wise 
men  are  fools,  one  way  or  another.  Well,  I  told  Gobal 
I  would  give  the  man  the  Ninety-Nine  for  the  cruise 
and  search,  and  that  we  should  divide  the  gold  between 
us,  if  it  was  found,  taking  out  first  enough  to  make  a 
dot  for  you  and  a  fine  handful  for  Bissonnette.  But  no, 
shake  not  your  head  like  that.  It  shall  be  so.  Away 
went  Gobal  four  months  ago,  and  I  get  a  letter  from 
him  weeks  past,  just  after  Pentecost,  to  say  he  would 
be  here  some  time  in  the  first  of  July,  with  the  man. 
Well,  it  is  a  great  game.  The  man  is  a  pirate,  but  it 
does  not  matter — he  has  paid  for  that.  I  thought  you 
would  be  glad  of  a  fine  adventure  like  that,  so  I  said 
to  you,  Come." 

"But,  father—" 

"If  you  do  not  like  you  can  go  on  with  Gobal  in  the 
Free-and-Easy,  and  you  shall  be  landed  at  the  Isle  of 
Days.  That's  all.  We're  waiting  here  for  Gobal.  He 
promised  to  stop  just  outside  this  bay  and  land  our 
man  on  us.  Then,  blood  of  my  heart,  away  we  go  after 
the  treasure!" 

Joan's  eyes  flashed.  Adventure  was  in  her  as  deep 
as  life  itself.  She  had  been  cradled  in  it,  reared  in  it, 
lived  with  it,  and  here  was  no  law-breaking.  Whose 
money  was  it?  No  one's:  for  who  should  say  what 


274  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

ship  it  was,  or  what  people  were  robbed  by  Brigond  and 
those  others?  Gold — that  was  a  better  game  than  wine 
and  brandy,  and  for  once  her  father  would  be  on  a  cruise 
which  would  not  be,  as  it  were,  sailing  in  forbidden 
waters. 

"When  do  you  expect  Gobal?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"He  ought  to  have  been  here  a  week  ago.  Maybe 
he  has  had  a  bad  voyage,  or  something." 

"He's  sure  to  come?" 

"Of  course.  I  found  out  about  that.  She's  got  a  big 
consignment  to  people  in  Quebec.  Something  has  gone 
wrong,  but  she'll  be  here — yes." 

"What  will  you  do  if  you  get  the  money?"  she  asked. 

Tarboe  laughed  heartily.  "My  faith!  Come  play 
up  those  scarlet  hose,  Bissonnette!  My  faith,  I'll  go 
into  Parliament  at  Quebec.  Thunder!  I  will  have 
sport  with  them.  I'll  reform  the  customs.  There 
shan't  be  any  more  smuggling.  The  people  of  Quebec 
shall  drink  no  more  good  wine — no  one  except  Black" 
Tarboe,  the  member  for  Isle  of  Days." 

Again  he  laughed,  and  his  eyes  spilt  fire  like  revolv- 
ing wheels.  For  a  moment  Joan  was  quiet;  her  face 
was  shining  like  the  sun  on  a  river.  She  saw  more  than 
her  father,  for  she  saw  release.  A  woman  may  stand 
by  a  man  who  breaks  the  law,  but  in  her  heart  she  al- 
ways has  bitterness,  for  that  the  world  shall  speak  well 
of  herself  and  what  she  loves  is  the  secret  desire  of 
every  woman.  In  her  heart  she  never  can  defy  the 
world  as  does  a  man. 

She  had  carried  off  the  situation  as  became  the 
daughter  of  a  daring  adventurer,  who  in  more  stirring 
times  might  have  been  a  Du  Lhut  or  a  Rob  Roy,  but 
she  was  sometimes  tired  of  the  fighting,  sometimes  wish- 
ful that  she  could  hold  her  position  easier.  Suppose 


CRUISE  OF  THE   "  NINETY-NINE "      275 

the  present  good  cure"  should  die  and  another  less  con- 
siderate arrive,  how  hard  might  her  position  become! 
Then,  she  had  a  spirit  above  her  station,  as  have  most 
people  who  know  the  world  and  have  seen  something 
of  its  forbidden  side;  for  it  is  notable  that  wisdom  comes 
not  alone  from  loving  good  things,  but  from  having 
seen  evil  as  well  as  good.  Besides  Joan  was  not  a  woman 
to  go  singly  to  her  life's  end. 

There  was  scarcely  a  man  on  Isle  of  Days  and  in  the 
parish  of  Ste.  Eunice,  on  the  mainland,  but  would  gladly 
have  taken  to  wife  the  daughter  of  Tarboe  the  smuggler, 
and  it  is  likely  that  the  cure"  of  either  parish  would  not 
have  advised  against  it. 

Joan  had  had  the  taste  of  the  lawless,  and  now  she 
knew,  as  she  sat  and  listened  to  Bissonnette's  music, 
that  she  also  could  dance  for  joy,  in  the  hope  of  a  taste 
of  the  lawful.  With  this  money,  if  it  were  got,  there 
could  be  another  life — in  Quebec.  She  could  not  for- 
bear laughing  now  as  she  remembered  that  first  day 
she  had  seen  Orvay  Lafarge,  and  she  said  to  Bisson- 
nette:  "Loce,  do  you  mind  the  keg  in  the  water-pail?" 
Bissonnette  paused  on  an  out-pull,  and  threw  back  his 
head  with  a  soundless  laugh,  then  played  the  concer- 
tina into  contortions. 

"That  Lafarge!  H'm!  He  is  very  polite;  but 
pshaw,  it  is  no  use  that,  in  whisky-running!  To  beat 
a  great  man,  a  man  must  be  great.  Tarboe  Nob-  can 
lead  M'sieu'  Lafarge  all  like  that!" 

It  seemed  as  if  he  were  pulling  the  nose  of  the  con- 
certina. Tarboe  began  tracing  a  kind  of  maze  with  his 
fingers  on  the  deck,  his  eyes  rolling  outward  like  an  end- 
less puzzle.  But  presently  he  turned  sharp  on  Joan. 

"How  many  tunes  have  you  met  him?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  six  or  seven — eight  or  nine,  perhaps." 


276  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Her  father  stared.  "Eight  or  nine?  By  the  holy! 
Is  it  like  that?  Where  have  you  seen  him?  " 

" Twice  at  our  home,  as  you  know;  two  or  three 
times  at  dances  at  the  Belle  Chatelaine,  and  the  rest 
when  we  were  at  Quebec  in  May.  He  is  amusing, 
M'sieu'  Lafarge." 

"Yes,  two  of  a  kind,"  remarked  Tarboe  drily;  and 
then  he  told  his  schemes  to  Joan,  letting  Bissonnette 
hang  up  the  "The  Demoiselle  with  the  Scarlet  Hose," 
and  begin  "The  Coming  of  the  Gay  Cavalier."  She 
entered  into  his  plans  with  spirit,  and  together  they 
speculated  what  bay  it  might  be,  of  the  many  on  the 
coast  of  Labrador. 

They  spent  two  days  longer  waiting,  and  then  at 
dawn  a  merchantman  came  sauntering  up  to  anchor. 
She  signalled  to  the  Ninety-Nine.  In  five  minutes  Tar- 
boe was  climbing  up  the  side  of  the  Free-and-Easy,  and 
presently  was  in  Gobal's  cabin,  with  a  glass  of  wine  in 
his  hand. 

"What  kept  you,  Gobal?"  he  asked.  "You're  ten 
days  late,  at  least." 

"Storm  and  sickness — broken  mainmast  and  small- 
pox." Gobal  was  not  cheerful. 

Tarboe  caught  at  something.  "You've  got  our  man?  " 

Gobal  drank  off  his  wine  slowly.    "Yes,"  he  said. 

"Well?— Why  don't  you  fetch  him?" 

"You  can  see  him  below." 

"The  man  has  legs,  let  him  walk  here.  Hello,  my 
Gobal,  what's  the  matter?  If  he's  here  bring  him  up. 
We've  no  tune  to  lose." 

"Tarboe,  the  fool  got  smallpox,  and  died  three  hours 
ago — the  tenth  man  since  we  started.  We're  going  to 
give  him  to  the  fishes.  They're  putting  him  in  his  linen 
now." 


CRUISE  OF  THE   " NINETY-NINE"      277 

Tarboe's  face  hardened.  Disaster  did  not  dismay 
him,  it  either  made  him  ugly  or  humourous,  and  one 
phase  was  as  dangerous  as  the  other. 

"D'ye  mean  to  say,"  he  groaned,  "that  the  game  is 
up?  Is  it  all  finished?  Sweat  o'  my  soul,  my  skin  crawls 
like  hot  glass!  Is  it  the  end,  eh?  The  beast,  to  die!" 

GobaFs  eyes  glistened.  He  had  sent  up  the  mercury, 
he  would  now  bring  it  down. 

"Not  such  a  beast  as  you  think.  A  live  pirate,  a  con- 
vict, as  comrade  in  adventure,  is  not  sugar  in  the  teeth. 
This  one  was  no  better  than  the  worst.  Well,  he  died. 
That  was  awkward.  But  he  gave  me  the  chart  of  the 
bay  before  he  died — and  that  was  damn  square." 

Tarboe  held  out  his  hand  eagerly,  the  big  fingers 
bending  claw-like. 

"Give  it  me,  Gobal,"  he  said. 

"Wait.  There's  no  hurry.  Come  along,  there's  the 
bell:  they're  going  to  drop  him." 

He  coolly  motioned,  and  passed  out  from  the  cabin 
to  the  ship's  side.  Tarboe  kept  his  tongue  from  blas- 
phemy, and  his  hand  from  the  captain's  shoulder,  for 
he  knew  only  too  well  that  Gobal  held  the  game  in  his 
hands.  They  leaned  over  and  saw  two  sailors  with 
something  on  a  plank. 

"We  therefore  commit  his  body  to  the  deep,  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  Judgment  Day — let  her  go!"  grunted 
Gobal;  and  a  long  straight  canvas  bundle  shot  with  a 
swishing  sound  beneath  the  water.  "It  was  rough  on 
him  too,"  he  continued.  "He  waited  twenty  years  to 
have  his  chance  again.  Damn  me,  if  I  didn't  feel  as  if 
I'd  hit  him  in  the  eye,  somehow,  when  he  begged  me  to 
keep  him  alive  long  enough  to  have  a  look  at  the  rhino. 
But  it  wasn't  no  use.  He  had  to  go,  and  I  told  him  so. 
Then  he  did  the  fine  thing :  he  give  me  the  chart.  But 


278  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

he  made  me  swear  on  a  book  of  the  Mass  that  if  we  got 
the  gold  we'd  send  one-half  his  share  to  a  woman  in 
Paris,  and  the  rest  to  his  brother,  a  priest  at  Nancy.  I'll 
keep  my  word — but  yes!  Eh,  Tarboe?" 

"You  can  keep  your  word  for  me!  What,  you  think, 
Gobal,  there  is  no  honour  in  Black  Tarboe,  and  you've 
known  me  ten  years!  Haven't  I  always  kept  my  word 
like  a  clock?" 

Gobal  stretched  out  his  hand.  "Like  the  sun — sure. 
That's  enough.  We'll  stand  by  my  oath.  You  shall 
see  the  chart." 

Going  again  inside  the  cabin,  Gobal  took  out  a  map 
grimed  with  ceaseless  fingering,  and  showed  it  to  Tar- 
boe, putting  his  finger  on  the  spot  where  the  treasure 
lay. 

"The  Bay  of  Belle  Amour!"  cried  Tarboe,  his  eyes 
flashing.  "Ah,  I  know  it!  That's  where  Gaspard  the 
pilot  lived.  It's  only  forty  leagues  or  so  from  here." 
His  fingers  ran  here  and  there  on  the  map.  "Yes,  yes," 
he  continued,  "it's  so,  but  he  hasn't  placed  the  reef 
right.  Ah,  here  is  how  Brigond's  ship  went  down! 
There's  a  needle  of  rock  in  the  bay.  It  isn't  here." 

Gobal  handed  the  chart  over.  "I  can't  go  with  you, 
but  I  take  your  word;  I  can  say  no  more.  If  you  cheat 
me  I'll  kill  you;  that's  all." 

"Let  me  give  a  bond,"  said  Tarboe  quickly.  "If  I 
saw  much  gold  perhaps  I  couldn't  trust  myself,  but 
there's  someone  to  be  trusted,  who'll  swear  for  me.  If 
my  daughter  Joan  give  her  word — " 

"Is  she  with  you?" 

"Yes,  in  the  Ninety-Nine,  now.  I'll  send  Bissonnette 
for  her.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  send,  for  gold  is  worse  than  bad 
whisky  when  it  gets  into  a  man's  head.  Joan  will  speak 
for  me." 


CRUISE  OF  THE  "NINETY-NINE"     279 

Ten  minutes  later  Joan  was  in  Gobal's  cabin, 
guaranteeing  for  her  father  the  fulfilment  of  his  bond. 
An  hour  afterwards  the  Free-and-Easy  was  moving  up 
stream  with  her  splintered  mast  and  ragged  sails,  and 
the  Ninety-Nine  was  looking  up  and  over  towards  the 
Bay  of  Belle  Amour.  She  reached  it  in  the  late  after- 
noon of  the  next  day.  Bissonnette  did  not  know  the 
object  of  the  expedition,  but  he  had  caught  the  spirit  of 
the  affair,  and  his  eyes  were  like  spots  of  steel  as  he 
held  the  sheet  or  took  his  turn  at  the  tiller.  Joan's 
eyes  were  now  on  the  sky,  now  on  the  sail,  and  now  on 
the  land,  weighing  as  wisely  as  her  father  the  advantage 
of  the  wind,  yet  dwelling  on  that  cave  where  skeletons 
kept  ward  over  the  spoils  of  a  pirate  ship. 

They  arrived,  and  Tarboe  took  the  Ninety-Nine 
warily  in  on  a  little  wind  off  the  land.  He  came  near 
sharing  the  fate  of  Brigond,  for  the  yawl  grazed  the 
needle  of  the  rock  that,  hiding  away  in  the  water,  with 
a  nose  out  for  destruction,  awaits  its  victims.  They 
reached  safe  anchorage,  but  by  the  tune  they  landed 
it  was  night,  with,  however,  a  good  moon  showing. 

All  night  they  searched,  three  silent,  eager  figures, 
drawing  step  by  step  nearer  the  place  where  the  ancient 
enemy  of  man  was  barracked  about  by  men's  bodies. 
It  was  Joan  who,  at  last,  as  dawn  drew  up,  discovered 
the  hollow  between  two  great  rocks  where  the  treasure 
lay.  A  few  minutes'  fierce  digging,  and  the  kegs  of  gold 
were  disclosed,  showing  through  the  ribs  of  two  skele- 
tons. Joan  shrank  back,  but  the  two  men  tossed  aside 
the  rattling  bones,  and  presently  the  kegs  were  standing 
between  them  on  the  open  shore.  Bissonnette's  eyes 
were  hungry — he  knew  now  the  wherefore  of  the  quest. 
He  laughed  outright,  a  silly,  loud,  hysterical  laugh.  Tar- 
boe's  eyes  shifted  from  the  sky  to  the  river,  from  the 


280  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

river  to  the  kegs,  from  the  kegs  to  Bissonnette.  On  him 
they  stayed  a  moment.  Bissonnette  shrank  back.  Tar- 
boe.was  feeling  for  the  first  tune  in  his  life  the  deadly 
suspicion  which  comes  with  ill-gotten  wealth.  This 
passed  as  his  eyes  and  Joan's  met,  for  she  had  caught 
the  melodrama,  the  overstrain;  Bissonnette's  laugh  had 
pointed  the  situation;  and  her  sense  of  humour  had 
prevailed.  "La,  la,"  she  said,  with  a  whimsical  quirk 
of  the  head,  and  no  apparent  relevancy: 

"  Lady-bird,  lady-bird,  fly  away  home, 
Your  house  is  on  fire,  and  your  children  all  gone." 

The  remedy  was  good.  Tarboe's  eyes  came  again  to 
their  natural  liveliness,  and  Bissonnette  said: 

"My  throat's  like  a  piece  of  sand-paper." 

Tarboe  handed  over  a  brandy  flask,  after  taking  a 
pull  himself,  and  then  sitting  down  on  one  of  the  kegs, 
he  said:  "It  is  as  you  see,  and  now  Angel  Point  very 
quick.  To  get  it  there  safe,  that's  the  thing!"  Then, 
scanning  the  sky  closely:  "It's  for  a  handsome  day,  and 
the  wind  goes  to  bear  us  up  fine.  Good !  Well,  for  you, 
Bissonnette,  there  shall  be  a  thousand  dollars,  you  shall 
have  the  Belle  Chatelaine  Inn  and  the  little  lady  at 
Point  Pierrot.  For  the  rest,  you  shall  keep  a  quiet 
tongue,  eh?  If  not,  my  Bissonnette,  we  shall  be  the 
best  of  strangers,  and  you  shall  not  be  happy.  Hein?" 

Bissonnette's  eyes  flashed.  "The  Belle  Chatelaine? 
Good!  That  is  enough.  My  tongue  is  tied;  I  cannot 
speak;  it  is  fastened  with  a  thousand  pegs." 

"Very  good,  a  thousand  gold  pegs,  and  you  shall 
never  pull  them.  The  little  lady  will  have  you  with 
them,  not  without;  and  unless  you  stand  by  me,  no 
one  shall  have  you  at  any  price — by  God!" 

He  stood  up,  but  Joan  put  out  her  hand.    "You  have 


CRUISE  OF  THE   " NINETY-NINE"      281 

been  speaking,  now  it  is  my  turn.  Don't  cry  cook  till 
you  have  the  venison  home.  What  is  more,  I  gave  my 
word  to  Gobal,  and  I  will  keep  it.  I  will  be  captain.  No 
talking!  When  you've  got  the  kegs  in  the  cellar  at 
Angel  Point,  good!  But  now — come,  my  comrades,  I 
am  your  captain!" 

She  was  making  the  thing  a  cheerful  adventure,  and 
the  men  now  swung  the  kegs  on  their  shoulders  and 
carried  them  to  the  boat.  In  another  half-hour  they 
were  under  way  in  the  gaudy  light  of  an  orange  sunrise, 
a  simmering  wind  from  the  sea  lifting  them  up  the  river, 
and  the  grey-red  coast  of  Labrador  shrinking  sullenly 
back. 

About  this  tune,  also,  a  Government  cutter  was  put- 
ting out  from  under  the  mountain-wall  at  Quebec,  its 
officer  in  command  having  got  renewed  orders  from  the 
Minister  to  bring  in  Tarboe  the  smuggler.  And  when 
Mr.  Martin,  the  inspector  in  command  of  the  expedition, 
was  ordered  to  take  with  him  Mr.  Orvay  Lafarge  and 
five  men,  "effectively  armed,"  it  was  supposed  by  the 
romantic  Minister  that  the  matter  was  as  good  as 
done. 

What  Mr.  Orvay  Lafarge  did  when  he  got  the  word, 
was  to  go  straight  to  his  hat-peg,  then  leave  the  office, 
walk  to  the  little  club  where  he  spent  leisure  hours, — 
called  office  hours  by  people  who  wished  to  be  precise 
as  well  as  suggestive, — sit  down,  and  raise  a  glass  to  his 
lips.  After  which  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and 
said:  "Well,  I'm  particularly  damned!"  A  few  hours 
later  they  were  away  on  their  doubtful  exploit. 


282  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 


II.    THE  DEFENCE 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  after  she  left  Lab- 
rador, the  Ninety-Nine  came  rippling  near  Isle  of  Fires, 
not  sixty  miles  from  her  destination,  catching  a  fair 
wind  on  her  quarter  off  the  land.  Tarboe  was  in  fine 
spirits,  Joan  was  as  full  of  songs  as  a  canary,  and  Bis- 
sonnette  was  as  busy  watching  her  as  in  keeping  the 
nose  of  the  Ninety-Nine  pointing  for  Cap  de  Gloire. 
Tarboe  was  giving  the  sail  full  to  the  wind,  and 
thinking  how  he  would  just  be  able  to  reach  Angel 
Point  and  get  his  treasure  housed  before  mass  in  the 
morning. 

Mass!  How  many  times  had  he  laughed  as  he  sat 
in  church  and  heard  the  cure"  have  his  gentle  fling  at 
smuggling !  To  think  that  the  hiding-place  for  his  liquor 
was  the  unused,  almost  unknown,  cellar  of  that  very 
church,  built  a  hundred  years  before  as  a  refuge  from 
the  Indians,  which  he  had  reached  by  digging  a  tunnel 
from  the  shore  to  its  secret  passage!  That  was  why  the 
customs  officers  never  found  anything  at  Angel  Point, 
and  that  was  why  Tarboe  much  loved  going  to  mass. 
He  sometimes  thought  he  could  catch  the  flavour  of  the 
brands  as  he  leaned  his  forehead  on  the  seat  before  him. 
But  this  tune  he  would  go  to  mass  with  a  fine  handful 
of  those  gold  pieces  in  his  pocket,  just  to  keep  him  in 
a  commendable  mood.  He  laughed  out  loud  at  the 
thought  of  doing  so  within  a  stone's  throw  of  a  fortune 
and  nose-shot  of  fifty  kegs  of  brandy. 

As  he  did  so,  Bissonnette  gave  a  little  cry.  They 
were  coming  on  to  Cap  de  Gloire  at  the  moment,  and 
Tarboe  and  Joan,  looking,  saw  a  boat  standing  off 
towards  the  mainland,  as  <if  waiting  for  them.  Tarboe 


CRUISE  OF  THE  "NINETY-NINE"     283 

gave  a  roar,  and  called  to  Joan  to  take  the  tiller.  He 
snatched  a  glass  and  levelled  it. 

"A  Government  tug!"  he  said,  "and  tete  de  Didble! 
there's  your  tall  Lafarge  among  'em,  Joan!  I'd  know 
him  by  his  height  miles  off." 

Joan  lost  colour  a  trifle  and  then  got  courage. 
"Pshaw,"  she  said,  "what  does  he  want?" 

"Want?  Want?  He  wants  the  Ninety-Nine  and 
her  cargo ;  but  by  the  sun  of  my  soul,  he'll  get  her  across 
the  devil's  gridiron!  See  here,  my  girl,  this  ain't  any 
sport  with  you  aboard.  Bissonnette  and  I  could  make  a 
stand  for  it  alone,  but  what's  to  become  of  you?  I 
don't  want  you  mixed  up  in  the  mess." 

The  girl  was  eyeing  the  Government  boat.  "But 
I'm  in  it,  and  I  can't  be  out  of  it,  and  I  don't  want  to  be 
out  now  that  I  am  in.  Let  me  see  the  glass."  She  took 
it  in  one  hand.  "Yes,  it  must  be  M'sieu'  Lafarge,"  she 
said,  frowning.  "He  might  have  stayed  out  of  this." 

"When  he's  got  orders,  he  has  to  go,"  answered  her 
father;  "but  he  must  look  out,  for  a  gun  is  a  gun,  and 
I  don't  pick  and  choose.  Besides,  I've  no  contraband 
this  cruise,  and  I'll  let  no  one  stick  me  up." 

"There  are  six  or  seven  of  them,"  said  Joan  debat- 
ingly. 

"Bring  her  up  to  the  wind,"  shouted  Tarboe  to  Bis- 
sonnette. The  mainsail  closed  up  several  points,  the 
Ninety-Nine  slackened  her  pace  and  edged  in  closer  to 
the  land.  "Now,  my  girl,"  said  Tarboe,  "this  is  how  it 
stands.  If  we  fight,  there's  someone  sure  to  be  hurt,  and 
if  I'm  hurt,  where'll  you  be?" 

Bissonnette  interposed.  "We've  got  nothing  con- 
traband. The  gold  is  ours." 

"Trust  that  crew — but  no!"  cried  Tarboe,  with  an 
oath.  "The  Government  would  hold  the  rhino  for 


284  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

possible  owners,  and  then  give  it  to  a  convent  or 
something.  They  shan't  put  foot  here.  They've  said 
war,  and  they'll  get  it.  They're  signalling  us  to  stop, 
and  they're  bearing  down.  There  goes  a  shot!" 

The  girl  had  been  watching  the  Government  boat 
coolly.  Now  that  it  began  to  bear  on,  she  answered  her 
father's  question. 

"Captain,"  she  said,  like  a  trusted  mate,  "we'll  bluff 
them."  Her  eyes  flashed  with  the  intelligence  of  war. 
"Here,  quick,  I'll  take  the  tiller.  They  haven't  seen 
Bissonnette  yet;  he  sits  low.  Call  all  hands  on  deck- 
shout!  Then,  see:  Loce  will  go  down  the  middle  hatch, 
get  a  gun,  come  up  with  it  on  his  shoulder,  and  move  on 
to  the  fo'castle.  Then  he'll  drop  down  the  fo'castle 
hatch,  get  along  to  the  middle  hatch,  and  come  up  again 
with  the  gun,  now  with  his  cap,  now  without  it,  now 
with  his  coat,  now  without  it.  He'll  do  that  till  we've 
got  twenty  or  thirty  men  on  deck!  They'll  think  we've 
been  laying  for  them,  and  they'll  not  come  on — you 
see!" 

Tarboe  ripped  out  an  oath.  "It's  a  great  game,"  he 
said,  and  a  moment  afterwards,  in  response  to  his  roars, 
Bissonnette  came  up  the  hatch  with  his  gun  showing 
bravely;  then  again  and  again,  now  with  his  cap,  now 
without,  now  with  his  coat,  now  with  none,  anon  with 
a  tarpaulin  over  his  shoulders  grotesquely.  Mean- 
while Tarboe  trained  his  one  solitary  little  cannon  on 
the  enemy,  roaring  his  men  into  place. 

From  the  tug  it  seemed  that  a  large  and  well-armed 
crew  were  ranging  behind  the  bulwarks  of  the  Ninety- 
Nine.  Mr.  Martin,  the  inspector,  saw  with  alarm  Bis- 
sonnette's  constantly  appearing  rifle. 

"They've  arranged  a  plant  for  us,  Mr.  Lafarge. 
What  do  you  think  we'd  better  do?"  he  asked. 


CRUISE  OF  THE  "  NINETY-NINE "      285 

" Fight!"  answered  Lafarge  laconically.  He  wished 
to  put  himself  on  record,  for  he  was  the  only  one  on 
board  who  saw  through  the  ruse. 

"But  I've  counted  at  least  twenty  men,  all  armed,  and 
we've  only  five." 

"As  you  please,  sir,"  said  Lafarge  bluntly,  angry  at 
being  tricked,  but  inwardly  glad  to  be  free  of  the  busi- 
ness, for  he  pictured  to  himself  that  girl  at  the  tiller- 
he  had  seen  her  as  she  went  aft — in  a  police  court  at 
Quebec.  Yet  his  instinct  for  war  and  his  sense  of  duty 
impelled  him  to  say:  "Still,  sir,  fight!" 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Lafarge,"  excitedly  rejoined  his  chief. 
"I  cannot  risk  it.  We  must  go  back  for  more  men 
and  bring  along  a  Catling.  Slow  down!"  he  called. 

Lafarge  turned  on  his  heel  with  an  oath,  and  stood 
watching  the  Ninety-Nine. 

"She'll  laugh  at  me  till  I  die!"  he  said  to  himself  pres- 
ently, as  the  tug  turned  up  stream  and  pointed  for 
Quebec.  "Well,  I'm  jiggered!"  he  added,  as  a  cannon 
shot  came  ringing  over  the  water  after  them.  He  was 
certain  also  that  he  heard  loud  laughter.  No  doubt 
he  was  right;  for  as  the  tug  hurried  on,  Tarboe  ran  to 
Joan,  hugged  her  like  a  bear,  and  roared  till  he  ached. 
Then  she  paid  out  the  sheet,  they  clapped  on  all  sail, 
and  travelled  in  the  track  of  the  enemy. 

Tarboe's  spirit  was  roused.  He  was  not  disposed  to 
let  his  enemy  off  on  even  such  terms,  so  he  now  turned 
to  Joan  and  said:  "What  say  you  to  a  chase  of  the 
gentleman?" 

Joan  was  in  a  mood  for  such  a  dare-devil  adventure. 
For  three  people,  one  of  whom  was  a  girl,  to  give  chase 
to  a  well-manned,  well-armed  Government  boat  was 
too  good  a  relish  to  be  missed.  Then,  too,  it  had  just 
occurred  to  her  that  a  parley  would  be  amusing,  par- 


286  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

ticularly  if  she  and  Lafarge  were  the  truce-bearers.  So 
she  said:  "That  is  very  good." 

"Suppose  they  should  turn  and  fight?"  suggested 
Bissonnette. 

"That's  true — here's  m'am'selle,"  agreed  Tarboe. 

"But,  see,"  said  Joan.  "If  we  chase  them  and  call 
upon  them  to  surrender — and  after  all,  we  can  prove 
that  we  had  nothing  contraband — what  a  splendid 
game  it'll  be!"  Mischief  flicked  in  her  eyes. 

"Good!"  said  Tarboe.  "To-morrow  I  shall  be  a  rich 
man,  and  then  they'll  not  dare  to  come  again." 

So  saying,  he  gave  the  sail  to  the  wind,  and  away  the 
Ninety-Nine  went  after  the  one  ewe  lamb  of  the  Gov- 
ernment. 

Mr.  Martin  saw  her  coming,  and  gave  word  for  all 
steam.  It  would  be  a  pretty  game,  for  the  wind  was  in 
Tarboe's  favour,  and  the  general  advantage  was  not 
greatly  with  the  tug.  Mr.  Martin  was  now  anxious 
indeed  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  smuggler.  Lafarge 
made  one  restraining  effort,  then  settled  into  an  ironical 
mood.  Yet  a  half-dozen  times  he  was  inclined  to  blurt 
out  to  Martin  what  he  believed  was  the  truth.  A  man, 
a  boy,  and  a  girl  to  bluff  them  that  way!  In  his  bones 
he  felt  that  it  was  the  girl  who  was  behind  this  thing. 
Of  one  matter  he  was  sure — they  had  no  contraband 
stuff  on  board,  or  Tarboe  would  not  have  brought  his 
daughter  along.  He  could  not  understand  the  attitude, 
for  Tarboe  would  scarcely  have  risked  the  thing  out  of 
mere  bravado.  Why  not  call  a  truce?  Perhaps  he 
could  solve  the  problem.  They  were  keeping  a  tolera- 
bly safe  distance  apart,  and  there  was  no  great  danger 
of  the  Ninety-Nine  overhauling  them  even  if  it  so  willed; 
but  Mr.  Martin  did  not  know  that. 

What  he  said  to  his  chief  had  its  effect,  and  soon 


CRUISE  OF  THE   "NINETY-NINE"      287 

there  was  a  white  flag  flying  on  the  tug.  It  was  at  once 
answered  with  a  white  handkerchief  of  Joan's.  Then 
the  tug  slowed  up,  the  Ninety-Nine  came  on  gaily,  and 
at  a  good  distance  came  up  to  the  wind,  and  stood  off. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  Tarboe  through  his 
speaking-tube. 

"A  parley,"  called  Mr.  Martin. 

"Good;  send  an  officer,"  answered  Tarboe. 

A  moment  after,  Lafarge  was  in  a  boat  rowing  over 
to  meet  another  boat  rowed  by  Joan  alone,  who, 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  Bissonnette's,  had  prevailed  on  her 
father  to  let  her  go. 

The  two  boats  nearing  each  other,  Joan  stood  up, 
saluting,  and  Lafarge  did  the  same. 

"Good-day,  m'sieu',"  said  Joan,  with  assumed 
brusqueness,  mischief  lurking  about  her  mouth.  ' '  What 
do  you  want?" 

"Good-day,  monsieur;  I  did  not  expect  to  confer 
with  you." 

"M'sieu',"  said  Joan,  with  well-acted  dignity,  "if 
you  prefer  to  confer  with  the  captain  or  Mr.  Bisson- 
nette,  whom  I  believe  you  know  in  the  matter  of  a  pail, 
and—" 

"No,  no;  pardon  me,  monsieur,"  said  Lafarge  more 
eagerly  than  was  good  for  the  play,  "I  am  glad  to 
confer  with  you,  you  will  understand — you  will  under- 
stand—  He  paused. 

"What  will  I  understand?" 

"You  will  understand  that  I  understand!"  Lafarge 
waved  meaningly  towards  the  Ninety-Nine,  but  it  had 
no  effect  at  all.  Joan  would  not  give  the  game  over  into 
his  hands. 

"That  sounds  like  a  charade  or  a  puzzle  game.  We 
are  gentlemen  on  a  serious  errand,  aren't  we?" 


288  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"Yes,"  answered  Lafarge,  "perfect  gentlemen  on  a 
perfectly  serious  errand!" 

"Very  well,  m'sieu'.    Have  you  come  to  surrender?" 

The  splendid  impudence  of  the  thing  stunned  La- 
farge, but  he  said:  "I  suppose  one  or  the  other  ought  to 
surrender;  and  naturally,"  he  added  with  slow  point, 
"it  should  be  the  weaker." 

"Very  well.  Our  captain  is  willing  to  consider  condi- 
tions. You  came  down  on  us  to  take  us — a  quiet  craft 
sailing  in  free  waters.  You  attack  us  without  cause. 
We  summon  all  hands,  and  you  run.  We  follow,  you 
ask  for  truce.  It  is  granted.  We  are  not  hard — no. 
We  only  want  our  rights.  Admit  them;  we'll  make 
surrender  easy,  and  the  matter  is  over." 

Lafarge  gasped.  She  was  forcing  his  hand.  She  would 
not  understand  his  oblique  suggestions.  He  saw  only 
one  way  now,  and  that  was  to  meet  her,  boast  for  boast. 

"I  haven't  come  to  surrender,"  he  said,  "but  to  de- 
mand." 

"M'sieu',"  Joan  said  grandly,  "there's  nothing  more 
to  say.  Carry  word  to  your  captain  that  we'll  overhaul 
hun  by  sundown,  and  sink  him  before  supper." 

Lafarge  burst  out  laughing. 

"Well,  by  the  Lord,  but  you're  a  swashbuckler, 
Joan — " 

"M'sieu'—  " 

"Oh,  nonsense!  I  tell  you,  nonsense!  Let's  have 
over  with  this,  my  girl.  You're  the  cleverest  woman  on 
the  continent,  but  there's  a  limit  to  everything.  Here, 
tell  me  now,  and  if  you  answer  me  straight  I'll  say  no 


more." 


"M'sieu',  I  am  here  to  consider  conditions,  not  to — " 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Joan!    Tell  me  now,  have  you 

got  anything  contraband  on  board?    There'll  be  a  nasty 


CRUISE  OF  THE   "  NINETY-NINE "      289 

mess  about  the  thing,  for  me  and  all  of  us,  and  why 
can't  we  compromise?  I  tell  you  honestly  we'd  have 
come  on,  if  I  hadn't  seen  you  aboard." 

Joan  turned  her  head  back  with  a  laugh.  "My  poor 
m'sieu'!  You  have  such  bad  luck.  Contraband?  Let 
me  see?  Liquors  and  wines  and  tobacco  are  contra- 
band. Is  it  not  so?"  Lafarge  nodded. 

"Is  money — gold — contraband?" 

"Money?  No;  of  course  not,  and  you  know  it. 
Why  won't  you  be  sensible?  You're  getting  me  into 
a  bad  hole,  and— 

"I  want  to  see  how  you'll  come  out.  If  you  come 
out  well—  She  paused  quaintly. 

"Yes,  if  I  come  out  well — " 

"If  you  come  out  very  well,  and  we  do  not  sink  you 
before  supper,  I  may  ask  you  to  come  and  see  me." 

"H'm!  Is  that  all?  After  spoiling  my  reputation, 
I'm  to  be  let  come  and  see  you." 

"Isn't  that  enough  to  start  with?  What  has  spoiled 
your  reputation?" 

"A  man,  a  boy,  and  a  slip  of  a  girl."  He  looked 
meaningly  enough  at  her  now.  She  laughed.  "See," 
he  added;  "give  me  a  chance.  Let  me  search  the 
Ninety-Nine  for  contraband, — that's  all  I've  got  to  do 
with, — and  then  I  can  keep  quiet  about  the  rest.  If 
there's  no  contraband,  whatever  else  there  is,  I'll  hold 
my  tongue." 

"I've  told  you  what  there  is." 

He  did  not  understand.    "Will  you  let  me  search?" 

Joan's  eyes  flashed.  "Once  and  for  all,  no,  Orvay 
Lafarge.  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  man  whom  you  and 
your  men  would  have  killed  or  put  in  the  dock.  He's 
been  a  smuggler,  and  I  know  it.  Who  has  he  robbed? 
Not  the  poor,  not  the  needy;  but  a  rich  Government 


290 

that  robs  also.  Well,  in  the  hour  when  he  ceases  to  be 
a  smuggler  for  ever,  armed  men  come  to  take  him.  Why 
didn't  they  do  so  before?  Why  so  pious  all  at  once? 
No;  I  am  first  the  daughter  of  my  father,  and  after- 
wards— 

" And  afterwards?" 

"What  to-morrow  may  bring  forth." 

Lafarge  became  very  serious.  "  I  must  go  back.  Mr. 
Martin  is  signalling,  and  your  father  is  calling.  I  do 
not  understand,  but  you're  the  one  woman  in  the  world 
for  my  money,  and  I'm  ready  to  stand  by  that  and  leave 
the  customs  to-morrow  if  need  be." 

Joan's  eyes  blazed,  her  cheek  was  afire.  "  Leave  it 
to-day.  Leave  it  now.  Yes;  that's  my  one  condition. 
If  you  want  me,  and  you  say  you  do,  come  aboard  the 
Ninety-Nine,  and  for  to-day  be  one  of  us — to-morrow 
what  you  will." 

"What  I  will?  What  I  will,  Joan?   Do  you  mean  it?  " 

"Yes.  Pshaw!  Your  duty?  Don't  I  know  how  the 
Ministers  and  the  officers  have  done  then1  duty  at  Que- 
bec? It's  all  nonsense.  You  must  make  your  choice 
once  for  all  now." 

Lafarge  stood  a  moment  thinking.  "Joan,  I'll  do  it. 
I'd  go  hunting  in  hell  at  your  bidding.  But  see.  Every- 
thing's changed.  I  couldn't  fight  against  you,  but  I 
can  fight  for  you.  All  must  be  open  now.  You've  said 
there's  no  contraband.  Well,  I'll  tell  Mr.  Martin  so, 
but  I'll  tell  him  also  that  you've  only  a  crew  of  two — " 

"Of  three,  now!" 

"Of  three!  I  will  do  my  duty  in  that,  then  resign 
and  come  over  to  you,  if  I  can." 

"If  you  can?   You  mean  that  they  may  fire  on  you? " 

"I  can't  tell  what  they  may  do.  But  I  must  deal 
fair." 


CRUISE  OF  THE   "  NINETY-NINE "      291 

Joan's  face  was  grave.  "Very  well,  I  will  wait  for 
you  here." 

"They  might  hit  you." 

"But  no.    They  can't  hit  a  wall.    Go  on,  my  dear." 

They  saluted,  and,  as  Lafarge  turned  away,  Joan 
said,  with  a  little  mocking  laugh,  "Tell  him  that  he 
must  surrender,  or  we'll  sink  him  before  supper." 

Lafarge  nodded,  and  drew  away  quickly  towards  the 
tug.  His  interview  with  Mr.  Martin  was  brief,  and  he 
had  tendered  his  resignation,  though  it  was  disgrace- 
fully informal,  and  was  over  the  side  of  the  boat  again 
and  rowing  quickly  away  before  his  chief  recovered  his 
breath.  Then  Mr.  Martin  got  a  large  courage.  He 
called  on  his  men  to  fire  when  Lafarge  was  about  two 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  from  the  tug.  The  shots  rattled 
about  him.  He  turned  round  coolly  and  called  out, 
"Coward — we'll  sink  you  before  supper!" 

A  minute  afterwards  there  came  another  shot,  and 
an  oar  dropped  from  his  hand.  But  now  Joan  was  row- 
ing rapidly  towards  him,  and  presently  was  alongside. 

"Quick,  jump  in  here,"  she  said.  He  did  so,  and  she 
rowed  on  quickly.  Tarboe  did  not  understand,  but  now 
his  blood  was  up,  and  as  another  volley  sent  bullets 
dropping  around  the  two  he  gave  the  Ninety-Nine  to 
the  wind,  and  she  came  bearing  down  smartly  to  them. 
In  a  few  moments  they  were  safely  on  board,  and  Joan 
explained.  Tarboe  grasped  Lafarge's  unmaimed  hand, 
— the  other  Joan  was  caring  for, — and  swore  that  fight- 
ing was  the  only  thing  left  now. 

Mr.  Martin  had  said  the  same,  but  when  he  saw  the 
Ninety-Nine  determined,  menacing,  and  coming  on,  he 
became  again  uncertain,  and  presently  gave  orders  to 
make  for  the  lighthouse  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river.  He  could  get  over  first,  for  the  Ninety-Nine 


292  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

would  not  have  the  wind  so  much  in  her  favour,  and 
there  entrench  himself;  for  even  yet  Bissonnette  amply 
multiplied  was  in  his  mind — Lafarge  had  not  explained 
that  away.  He  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  some 
sunken  rocks  of  which  he  and  his  man  at  the  wheel 
did  not  know  accurately,  and  in  making  what  he  thought 
was  a  clear  channel  he  took  a  rock  with  great  force,  for 
they  were  going  full  steam  ahead.  Then  came  confu- 
sion, and  in  getting  out  the  one  boat  it  was  swamped 
and  a  man  nearly  drowned.  Meanwhile  the  *tug  was 
fast  sinking. 

While  they  were  throwing  off  their  clothes,  the 
Ninety-Nine  came  down,  and  stood  off.  On  one  hand 
was  the  enemy,  on  the  other  the  water,  with  the  shore 
half  a  mile  distant. 

"Do  you  surrender?"  called  out  Tarboe. 

"Can't  we  come  aboard  without  that?"  feebly  urged 
Mr.  Martin. 

"I'll  see  you  damned  first,  Mr.  Martin.  Come  quick, 
or  I'll  give  you  what  for." 

"We  surrender,"  answered  the  officer  gently. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  and  his  men  were  on  board, 
with  their  rifles  stacked  in  a  corner  at  Bissonnette's 
hand. 

Then  Tarboe  brought  the  Ninety-Nine  close  to  the 
wreck,  and  with  his  little  cannon  put  a  ball  into  her. 
This  was  the  finish.  She  shook  her  nose,  shivered,  shot 
down  like  a  duck,  and  was  gone. 

Mr.  Martin  was  sad  even  to  tears. 

"Now,  my  beauties,"  said  Tarboe,  "now  that  I've 
got  you  safe,  I'll  show  you  the  kind  of  cargo  I've  got." 

A  moment  afterwards  he  hoisted  a  keg  on  deck. 
"Think  that's  whisky?"  he  asked.  "Lift  it,  Mr. 
Martin."  Mr.  Martin  obeyed.  "Shake  it,"  he  added. 


CRUISE  OF  THE   "NINETY-NINE"      293 

Mr.  Martin  did  so.  "Open  it,  Mr.  Martin."  He  held 
out  a  hatchet-hammer.  The  next  moment  a  mass  of 
gold  pieces  yellowed  to  their  eyes.  Mr.  Martin  fell 
back,  breathing  hard. 

"Is  that  contraband,  Mr.  Martin?" 

"Treasure-trove,"  humbly  answered  the  stricken 
officer. 

"That's  it,  and  in  a  month,  Mr.  Martin,  I'll  be  asking 
the  chief  of  your  department  to  dinner." 

Meanwhile  Lafarge  saw  how  near  he  had  been  to 
losing  a  wife  and  a  fortune.  Arrived  off  Isle  of  Days, 
Tarboe  told  Mr.  Martin  and  his  men  that  if  they  said 
"treasure- trove"  till  they  left  the  island  their  lives 
would  not  be  worth  "a  tinker's  damn."  When  they 
had  sworn,  he  took  them  to  Angel  Point,  fed  them 
royally,  gave  them  excellent  liquor  to  drink,  and  sent 
them  hi  a  fishing-smack  with  Bissonnette  to  Quebec, 
where,  arriving,  they  told  strange  tales. 

Bissonnette  bore  a  letter  to  a  certain  banker  in  Que- 
bec, who  already  had  done  business  with  Tarboe,  and 
next  midnight  Tarboe  himself,  with  Gobal,  Lafarge, 
Bissonnette,  and  another,  came  knocking  at  the 
banker's  door,  each  carrying  a  keg  on  his  shoulder, 
and  armed  to  the  teeth.  And,  what  was  singular, 
two  stalwart  police-officers  walked  behind  with  com- 
fortable and  approving  looks. 

A  month  afterwards  Lafarge  and  Joan  were  married 
in  the  parish  church  at  Isle  of  Days,  and  it  was  said 
that  Mr.  Martin,  who,  for  some  strange  reason,  was 
allowed  to  retain  his  position  in  the  customs,  sent  a  pres- 
ent. The  wedding  ended  with  a  sensation,  for  just  as 
the  benediction  was  pronounced  a  loud  report  was  heard 
beneath  the  floor  of  the  church.  There  was  great  com- 
motion, but  Tarboe  whispered  in  the  curb's  ear,  and  he, 


294  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

blushing,  announced  that  it  was  the  bursting  of  a 
barrel.  A  few  minutes  afterwards  the  people  of  the 
parish  knew  the  old  hiding-place  of  Tarboe's  contra- 
band, and,  though  the  cure*  rebuked  them,  they  roared 
with  laughter  at  the  knowledge. 

"So  droll,  so  droll,  our  Tarboe  there!"  they  shouted, 
for  already  they  began  to  look  upon  him  as  their 
Seigneur. 

In  time  the  cure  forgave  him  also. 

Tarboe  seldom  left  Isle  of  Days,  save  when  he  went  to 
visit  his  daughter,  in  St.  Louis  Street,  Quebec,  not  far 
from  the  Parliament  House,  where  Orvay  Lafarge  is  a 
member  of  the  Ministry.  The  ex-smuggler  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Assembly  for  three  months,  but  after  defeat- 
ing his  own  party  on  a  question  of  tariff,  he  gave  a  por- 
trait of  himself  to  the  Chamber,  and  threw  his  seat 
into  the  hands  of  his  son-in-law.  At  the  Belle  Chate- 
laine, where  he  often  goes,  he  sometimes  asks  Bisson- 
nette  to  play  "The  Demoiselle  with  the  Scarlet  Hose." 


A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 


WHEN  old  Throng  the  trader,  trembling  with  sickness 
and  misery,  got  on  his  knees  to  Captain  Halby  and 
groaned,  "She  didn't  want  to  go;  they  dragged  her 
off;  you'll  fetch  her  back,  won't  ye? — she  always  had 
a  fancy  for  you,  cap'n,"  Pierre  shrugged  a  shoulder  and 
said: 

"But  you  stole  her  when  she  was  in  her  rock-a-by, 
my  Throng — you  and  your  Manette." 

"Like  a  match  she  was — no  bigger,"  continued  the 
old  man.  "Lord,  how  that  stepmother  bully-ragged  her, 
and  her  father  didn't  care  a  darn.  He'd  half  a  dozen 
others — Manette  and  me  hadn't  none.  We  took  her 
and  used  her  like  as  if  she  was  an  angel,  and  we  brought 
her  off  up  here.  Haven't  we  set  store  by  her?  Wasn't 
it  'cause  we  was  lonely  an'  loved  her  we  took  her? 
Hasn't  everybody  stood  up  and  said  there  wasn't  any- 
one like  her  in  the  North?  Ain't  I  done  fair  by  her 
always — ain't  I?  An'  now,  when  this  cough  's  eatin' 
my  life  out,  and  Manette  's  gone,  and  there  ain't  a  soul 
but  Due  the  trapper  to  put  a  blister  on  to  me,  them 
brutes  ride  up  from  over  the  border,  call  theirselves 
her  brothers,  an'  drag  her  off!" 

He  was  still  on  his  knees.  Pierre  reached  over  and 
lightly  kicked  a  moccasined  foot. 

"Get  up,  Jim  Throng,"  he  said.  "Holy!  do  you 
think  the  law  moves  because  an  old  man  cries?  Is  it 

295 


296  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

in  the  statutes? — that's  what  the  law  says.  Does  it 
come  within  the  act?  Is  it  a  trespass — an  assault  and 
battery? — a  breach  of  the  peace? — a  misdemeanour? 
Victoria — So  and  So:  that's  how  the  law  talks.  Get 
on  your  knees  to  Father  Corraine,  not  to  Captain  Halby, 
Jimmy  Throng." 

Pierre  spoke  in  a  half-sinister,  ironical  way,  for  be- 
tween him  and  Captain  Halby 's  Riders  of  the  Plains 
there  was  no  good  feeling.  More  than  once  he  had  come 
into  conflict  with  them,  more  than  once  had  they  laid 
their  hands  on  him — and  taken  them  off  again  in  due 
time.  He  had  foiled  them  as  to  men  they  wanted;  he 
had  defied  them — but  he  had  helped  them  too,  when  it 
seemed  right  to  him;  he  had  sided  with  them  once  or 
twice  when  to  do  so  was  perilous  to  himself.  He  had 
sneered  at  them,  he  did  not  like  them,  nor  they  him. 
The  sum  of  it  was,  he  thought  them  brave — and  stupid; 
and  he  knew  that  the  law  erred  as  often  as  it  set  things 
right. 

The  Trader  got  up  and  stood  between  the  two  men, 
coughing  much,  his  face  straining,  his  eyes  bloodshot, 
as  he  looked  anxiously  from  Pierre  to  Halby.  He  was 
the  sad  wreck  of  a  strong  man.  Nothing  looked  strong 
about  him  now  save  his  head,  which,  with  its  long  grey 
hair,  seemed  badly  balanced  by  the  thin  neck,  through 
which  the  terrible  cough  was  hacking. 

"Only  half  a  lung  left,"  he  stammered,  as  soon  as  he 
could  speak,  "an'  Due  can't  fix  the  boneset,  camomile, 
and  whisky,  as  she  could.  An'  he  waters  the  whisky- 
curse — his — soul!"  The  last  three  words  were  spoken 
through  another  spasm  of  coughing.  "An'  the  blister- 
how  he  mucks  the  blister!" 

Pierre  sat  back  on  the  table,  laughing  noiselessly,  his 
white  teeth  shining.  Halby,  with  one  foot  on  a  bench, 


A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS  297 

was  picking  at  the  fur  on  his  sleeve  thoughtfully. 
His  face  was  a  little  drawn,  his  lips  were  tight-pressed, 
and  his  eyes  had  a  light  of  excitement.  Presently  he 
straightened  himself,  and,  after  a  half-malicious  look  at 
Pierre,  he  said  to  Throng: 

"Where  are  they,  do  you  say?" 

"  They  're  at" — the  old  man  coughed  hard — "at  Fort 
O'Battle." 

"What  are  they  doing  there?" 

"Waitin'  till  spring,  when  they'll  fetch  their  cattle 
up  an'  settle  there." 

"They  want — Lydia — to  keep  house  for  them?" 

The  old  man  writhed. 

"Yes,  God's  sake,  that's  it!  An'  they  want  Liddy 
to  marry  a  devil  called  Borotte,  with  a  thousand  cattle 
or  so — Pito  the  courier  told  me  yesterday.  Pito  saw 
her,  an'  he  said  she  was  white  like  a  sheet,  an'  called 
out  to  him  as  he  went  by.  Only  half  a  lung  I  got,  an' 
her  boneset  and  camomile  'd  save  it  for  a  bit,  mebbe — 
mebbe!" 

"It's  clear,"  said  Halby,  "that  they  trespassed,  and 
they  haven't  proved  then1  right  to  her." 

"Tonnerre,  what  a  thinker!"  said  Pierre,  mocking. 

Halby  did  not  notice.  His  was  a  solid  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility. 

"She  is  of  age? "  he  half  asked,  half  mused. 

"She's  twenty-one,"  answered  the  old  man,  with 
difficulty. 

"Old  enough  to  set  the  world  right,"  suggested  Pierre, 
still  mocking. 

"She  was  forced  away,  she  regarded  you  as  her  nat- 
ural protector,  she  believed  you  her  father:  they  broke 
the  law,"  said  the  soldier. 

"There  was  Moses,  and  Solomon,  and  Caesar,  and 


298  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Socrates,  and  now  .  .  .  I"  murmured  Pierre  in  assumed 
abstraction. 

A  red  spot  burned  on  Halby's  high  cheekbone  for  a 
minute,  but  he  persistently  kept  his  temper. 

"I'm  expected  elsewhere,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'm 
only  one  man,  yet  I  wish  I  could  go  to-day — even  alone. 
But—" 

"But  you  have  a  heart,"  said  Pierre.  " How  wonder- 
ful— a  heart!  And  there's  the  half  a  lung,  and  the 
boneset  and  camomile  tea,  and  the  blister,  and  the  girl 
with  an  eye  like  a  spot  of  rainbow,  and  the  sacred  law 
in  a  Remington  rifle!  Well,  well!  And  to  do  it  in  the 
early  morning — to  wait  in  the  shelter  of  the  trees  till 
some  go  to  look  after  the  horses,  then  enter  the  house, 
arrest  those  inside,  and  lay  low  for  the  rest." 

Halby  looked  over  at  Pierre  astonished.  Here  was 
raillery  and  good  advice  all  in  a  piece. 

"It  isn't  wise  to  go  alone,  for  if  there's  trouble  and 
I  should  go  down,  who's  to  tell  the  truth?  Two  could 
do  it;  but  one — no,  it  isn't  wise,  though  it  would  look 
smart  enough." 

"Who  said  to  go  alone?"  asked  Pierre,  scrawling  on 
the  table  with  a  burnt  match. 

"I  have  no  men." 

Pierre  looked  up  at  the  wall. 

"Throng  has  a  good  Snider  there,"  he  said. 

"Bosh!    Throng  can't  go." 

The  old  man  coughed  and  strained. 

"If  it  wasn't — only — half  a  lung,  and  I  could  carry 
the  boneset  'long  with  us." 

Pierre  slid  off  the  table,  came  to  the  old  man,  and, 
taking  him  by  the  arms,  pushed  him  gently  into  a  chair. 

"Sit  down;  don't  be  a  fool,  Throng,"  he  said.  Then 
he  turned  to  Halby:  "You're  a  magistrate — make  me  a 


A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS  299 

special  constable;  I'll  go,  monsieur  le  capitaine — of  no 
company." 

Halby  stared.  He  knew  Pierre's  bravery,  his  in- 
genuity and  daring.  But  this  was  the  last  thing  he 
expected:  that  the  malicious,  railing  little  half-breed 
would  work  with  him  and  the  law.  Pierre  seemed  to 
understand  his  thoughts,  for  he  said:  "It  is  not  for 
you.  I  am  sick  for  adventure,  and  then  there  is  made- 
moiselle— such  a  finger  she  has  for  a  ven'son  pudding." 

Without  a  word  Halby  wrote  on  a  leaf  in  his  note- 
book, and  presently  handed  the  slip  to  Pierre.  "  That's 
your  commission  as  a  special  constable,"  he  said,  "and 
here's  the  seal  on  it."  He  handed  over  a  pistol. 

Pierre  raised  his  eyebrows  at  it,  but  Halby  continued : 
"It  has  the  Government  mark.  But  you'd  better  bring 
Throng's  rifle  too." 

Throng  sat  staring  at  the  two  men,  his  hands  nerv- 
ously shifting  on  his  knees.  "Tell  Liddy,"  he  said, 
"that  the  last  batch  of  bread  was  sour — Due  ain't  no 
good — an'  that  I  ain't  had  no  relish  sence  she  left.  Tell 
her  the  cough  gits  lower  down  all  the  time.  'Member 
when  she  tended  that  felon  o'  yourn,  Pierre?" 

Pierre  looked  at  a  scar  on  his  finger  and  nodded. 
"She  cut  it  too  young;  but  she  had  the  nerve!  When 
do  you  start,  captain?  It's  an  eighty-mile  ride." 

"At  once,"  was  the  reply.  "We  can  sleep  to-night 
in  the  Jim-a-long-Jo "  (a  hut  which  the  Company  had 
built  between  two  distant  posts),  "and  get  there  at 
dawn  day  after  to-morrow.  The  snow  is  light  and  we 
can  travel  quick.  I  have  a  good  horse,  and  you — 

"I  have  my  black  Tophet.  He'll  travel  with  your 
roan  as  on  one  snaffle-bar.  That  roan — you  know  where 
he  come  from?" 

"From  the  Dolright  stud,  over  the  Border." 


300 

"That's  wrong.  He  come  from  Greystop's  paddock, 
where  my  Tophet  was  foaled;  they  are  brothers.  Yours 
was  stole  and  sold  to  the  Gover'ment;  mine  was  bought 
by  good  hard  money.  The  law  the  keeper  of  stolen 
goods,  eh?  But  these  two  will  go  cinch  to  cinch  all 
the  way,  like  two  brothers — like  you  and  me." 

He  could  not  help  the  touch  of  irony  in  his  last  words : 
he  saw  the  amusing  side  of  things,  and  all  humour  in 
him  had  a  strain  of  the  sardonic. 

"Brothers-in-law  for  a  day  or  two,"  answered  Halby 
drily. 

Within  two  hours  they  were  ready  to  start.  Pierre 
had  charged  Due  the  incompetent  upon  matters  for 
the  old  man's  comfort,  and  had  himself,  with  a  curious 
sort  of  kindness,  steeped  the  boneset  and  camomile  in 
whisky,  and  set  a  cup  of  it  near  his  chair.  Then  he 
had  gone  up  to  Throng's  bedroom  and  straightened  out 
and  shook  and  "made"  the  corn-husk  bed,  which  had 
gathered  into  lumps  and  rolls.  Before  he  came  down 
he  opened  a  door  near  by  and  entered  another  room, 
shutting  the  door,  and  sitting  down  on  a  chair.  A  stove- 
pipe ran  through  the  room,  and  it  was  warm,  though 
the  window  was  frosted  and  the  world  seemed  shut  out. 
He  looked  round  slowly,  keenly  interested.  There  was 
a  dressing-table  made  of  an  old  box;  it  was  covered 
with  pink  calico,  with  muslin  over  this.  A  cheap  look- 
ing-glass on  it  was  draped  with  muslin  and  tied  at  the 
top  with  a  bit  of  pink  ribbon.  A  common  bone  comb 
lay  near  the  glass,  and  beside  it  a  beautiful  brush  with 
an  ivory  back  and  handle.  This  was  the  only  expensive 
thing  in  the  room.  He  wondered,  but  did  not  go  near  it 
yet.  There  was  a  little  eight-day  clock  on  a  bracket 
which  had  been  made  by  hand — pasteboard  darkened 
with  umber  and  varnished;  a  tiny  little  set  of  shelves 


A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS  301 

made  of  the  wood  of  cigar-boxes;  and — alas,  the  shifts 
of  poverty  to  be  gay! — an  easy-chair  made  of  the  staves 
of  a  barrel  and  covered  with  poor  chintz.  Then  there 
was  a  photograph  or  two,  in  little  frames  made  from 
the  red  cedar  of  cigar-boxes,  with  decorations  of  putty, 
varnished,  and  a  long  panel  screen  of  birch-bark  of 
Indian  workmanship.  Some  dresses  hung  behind  the 
door.  The  bedstead  was  small,  the  frame  was  of  hick- 
ory, with  no  footboard,  ropes  making  the  support  for 
the  husk  tick.  Across  the  foot  lay  a  bedgown  and  a  pair 
of  stockings. 

Pierre  looked  long,  at  first  curiously;  but  after  a 
little  his  forehead  gathered  and  his  lips  drew  in  a  little, 
as  if  he  had  a  twinge  of  pain.  He  got  up,  went  over 
near  the  bed,  and  picked  up  a  hairpin.  Then  he  came 
back  to  the  chair  and  sat  down,  turning  it  about  in  his 
fingers,  still  looking  abstractedly  at  the  floor. 

"Poor  Lucy!"  he  said  presently;  "the  poor  child! 
Ah,  what  a  devil  I  was  then — so  long  ago!" 

This  solitary  room — Lydia's — had  brought  back  the 
tune  he  went  to  the  room  of  his  own  wife,  dead  by  her 
own  hand  after  an  attempt  to  readjust  the  broken 
pieces  of  life,  and  sat  and  looked  at  the  place  which  had 
been  hers,  remembering  how  he  had  left  her  with  her 
wet  face  turned  to  the  wall,  and  never  saw  her  again 
till  she  was  set  free  for  ever.  Since  that  tune  he  had 
never  sat  in  a  room  sacred  to  a  woman  alone. 

"What  a  fool,  what  a  fool,  to  think!"  he  said  at  last, 
standing  up;  "but  this  girl  must  be  saved.  She  must 
have  her  home  here  again." 

Unconsciously  he  put  the  hairpin  in  his  pocket, 
walked  over  to  the  dressing-table  and  picked  up  the 
hair-brush.  On  its  back  was  the  legend,  "L.  T.  from 
C.  H."  He  gave  a  whistle. 


302  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"So — so?"  he  said,  '"C.  H.'  M'sieu'  le  capitaine,  is 
it  like  that?" 

A  year  before,  Lydia  had  given  Captain  Halby  a 
dollar  to  buy  her  a  hair-brush  at  Winnipeg,  and  he  had 
brought  her  one  worth  ten  dollars.  She  had  beautiful 
hair,  and  what  pride  she  had  in  using  this  brush! 
Every  Sunday  morning  she  spent  a  long  time  in  washing, 
curling,  and  brushing  her  hair,  and  every  night  she 
tended  it  lovingly,  so  that  it  was  a  splendid  rich  brown 
like  her  eye,  coiling  nobly  above  her  plain,  strong  face 
with  its  good  colour. 

Pierre,  glancing  in  the  glass,  saw  Captain  Halby's 
face  looking  over  his  shoulder.  It  startled  him,  and  he 
turned  round.  There  was  the  face  looking  out  from  a 
photograph  that  hung  on  the  wall  in  the  recess  where 
the  bed  was.  He  noted  now  that  the  likeness  hung 
where  the  girl  could  see  it  the  last  thing  at  night  and  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning. 

"So  far  as  that,  eh!"  he  said.  "And  m'sieu'  is  a 
gentleman,  too.  We  shall  see  what  he  will  do:  he  has 
his  chance  now,  once  for  all." 

He  turned,  came  to  the  door,  softly  opened  it,  passed 
out,  and  shut  it,  then  descended  the  stairs,  and  in  half 
an  hour  was  at  the  door  with  Captain  Halby,  ready  to 
start.  It  was  an  exquisite  winter  day,  even  in  its  bitter 
coldness.  The  sun  was  shining  clear  and  strong,  all  the 
plains  glistened  and  shook  like  quicksilver,  and  the 
vast  blue  cup  of  sky  seemed  deeper  than  it  had  ever 
been.  But  the  frost  ate  the  skin  like  an  acid,  and  when 
Throng  came  to  the  door  Pierre  drove  him  back  in- 
stantly from  the  ah*. 

"I  only — wanted — to  say — to  Liddy,"  hacked  the 
old  man,  "that  I'm  thinkin' — a  little  m'lasses  'd  kinder 
help — the  boneset  an'  camomile.  Tell  her  that  the 


A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS  303 

cattle  '11  all  be  hers — an' — the  house,  an'  I  ain't  got  no 
one  but — 

But  Pierre  pushed  him  back  and  shut  the  door,  say- 
ing: "I'll  tell  her  what  a  fool  you  are,  Jimmy  Throng." 

The  old  man,  as  he  sat  down  awkwardly  in  his  chair, 
with  Due  stolidly  lighting  his  pipe  and  watching  him, 
said  to  himself:  "Yes,  I  be  a  durn  fool;  I  be,  I  be!" 
over  and  over  again.  And  when  the  dog  got  up  from 
near  the  stove  and  came  near  to  him,  he  added:  "I  be, 
Touser;  I  be  a  durn  fool,  for  I  ought  to  ha'  stole  two  or 
three,  an'  then  I'd  not  be  alone,  an'  nothin'  but  sour 
bread  an'  pork  to  eat.  I  ought  to  ha'  stole  three." 

"Ah,  Manet te  ought  to  have  given  you  some  of  your 
own,  it's  true,  that!"  said  Due  stolidly.  "You  never 
was  a  real  father,  Jim." 

"Liddy  got  to  look  like  me;  she  got  to  look  like 
Manette  and  me,  I  tell  ye!"  said  the  old  man  hoarsely. 

Due  laughed  in  his  stupid  way.  "Look  like  you? 
Look  like  you,  Jim,  with  a  face  to  turn  milk  sour? 
Ho,  ho!" 

Throng  rose,  his  face  purple  with  anger,  and  made  as 
if  to  catch  Due  by  the  throat,  but  a  fit  of  coughing 
seized  him,  and  presently  blood  showed  on  his  lips. 
Due,  with  a  rough  gentleness,  wiped  off  the  blood  and 
put  the  whisky-and-herbs  to  the  sick  man's  lips,  say- 
ing, in  a  fatherly  way: 

"For  why  you  do  like  that?    You're  a  fool,  Jimmy ! " 

"I  be,  I  be,"  said  the  old  man  in  a  whisper,  and  let 
his  hand  rest  on  Due's  shoulder. 

"I'll  fix  the  bread  sweet  next  tune,  Jimmy." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  husky  voice  peevishly.  "She'll 
do  it — Liddy '11  do  it.  Liddy 's  comin'." 

"All  right,  Jimmy.    All  right." 

After  a  moment  Throng  shook  his  head  feebly  and 
said,  scarcely  above  a  whisper: 


304  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"But  I  be  a  durn  fool — when  she's  not  here." 
Due  nodded  and  gave  him  more  whisky  and  herbs. 
"My  feet's  cold,"  said  the  old  man,  and  Due  wrapped 
a  bearskin  round  his  legs. 

II 

FOR  miles  Pierre  and  Halby  rode  without  a  word. 
Then  they  got  down  and  walked  for  a  couple  of  miles, 
to  bring  the  blood  into  their  legs  again. 

"The  old  man  goes  to  By-by  bientot,"  said  Pierre  at 
last. 

"You  don't  think  he'll  last  long?" 

"Maybe  ten  days;  maybe  one.  If  we  don't  get  the 
girl,  out  goes  his  torchlight  straight." 

"She's  been  very  good  to  him." 

"He's  been  on  his  knees  to  her  all  her  life." 

"There'll  be  trouble  out  of  this,  though." 

"Pshaw!    The  girl  is  her  own  master." 

"I  mean,  someone  will  probably  get  hurt  over  there." 
He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  Fort  O'Battle. 

"That's  in  the  game.  The  girl  is  worth  fighting  for, 
hein?" 

"Of  course,  and  the  law  must  protect  her.  It's  a 
free  country." 

"So  true,  my  captain,"  murmured  Pierre  drily.  "It 
is  wonderful  what  a  man  will  do  for  the  law." 

The  tone  struck  Halby.  Pierre  was  scanning  the 
horizon  abstractedly. 

"You  are  always  hitting  at  the  law,"  he  said.  "Why 
do  you  stand  by  it  now?" 

"For  the  same  reason  as  yourself." 

"What  is  that?" 

"She  has  your  picture  in  her  room,  she  has  my  lucky 
dollar  in  her  pocket." 


A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS  305 

Halby's  face  flushed,  and  then  he  turned  and  looked 
steadily  into  Pierre's  eyes. 

"We'd  better  settle  this  thing  at  once.  If  you're 
going  to  Fort  O'Battle  because  you've  set  your  fancy 
there,  you'd  better  go  back  now.  That's  straight.  You 
and  I  can't  sail  in  the  same  boat.  I'll  go  alone,  so  give 
me  the  pistol." 

Pierre  laughed  softly,  and  waved  the  hand  back. 

"T'sh!  What  a  high-cock-a-lorum!  You  want  to 
do  it  all  yourself — to  fill  the  eye  of  the  girl  alone,  and 
be  tucked  away  to  By-by  for  your  pains — mais,  quelle 
folie!  See:  you  go  for  law  and  love;  I  go  for  fun  and 
Jimmy  Throng.  The  girl?  Pshaw!  she  would  come  out 
right  in  the  end,  without  you  or  me.  But  the  old  man 
with  half  a  lung — that's  different.  He  must  have  sweet 
bread  in  his  belly  when  he  dies,  and  the  girl  must  make 
it  for  him.  She  shall  brush  her  hair  with  the  ivory  brush 
by  Sunday  morning." 

Halby  turned  sharply. 

"You've  been  spying,"  he  said.  "You've  been  in 
her  room — you — " 

Pierre  put  out  his  hand  and  stopped  the  word  on 
Halby's  lips. 

"Slow,  slow,"  he  said;  "we  are  both — police  to-day. 
Voild!  we  must  not  fight.  There  is  Throng  and  the  girl 
to  think  of."  Suddenly,  with  a  soft  fierceness,  he  added : 
"  If  I  looked  in  her  room,  what  of  that?  In  all  the  North 
is  there  a  woman  to  say  I  wrong  her?  No.  Well,  what 
if  I  carry  her  room  in  my  eye;  does  that  hurt  her  or 
you?" 

Perhaps  something  of  the  loneliness  of  the  outlaw 
crept  into  Pierre's  voice  for  an  instant,  for  Halby  sud- 
denly put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  said:  "Let's  drop 
the  thing,  Pierre." 


306  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Pierre  looked  at  him  musingly. 

"When  Throng  is  put  to  By-by  what  will  you  do?" 
he  asked. 

"I  will  marry  her,  if  she'll  have  me." 

"But  she  is  prairie-born,  and  you!" 

"I'm  a  prairie-rider." 

After  a  moment  Pierre  said,  as  if  to  himself:  "So 
quiet  and  clean,  and  the  print  calico  and  muslin,  and 
the  ivory  brush!" 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  he  was  merely  working  on 
Halby  that  he  be  true  to  the  girl,  or  was  himself  soft- 
hearted for  the  moment.  He  had  a  curious  store  of 
legend  and  chanson,  and  he  had  the  Frenchman's  power 
of  applying  them,  though  he  did  it  seldom.  But  now 
he  said  in  a  half  monotone: 

"Have  you  seen  the  way  I  have  built  my  nest? 

(0  brave  and  tall  is  the  Grand  Seigneur!) 
I  have  trailed  the  East,  I  have  searched  the  West, 

(0  clear  of  eye  is  the  Grand  Seigneur!) 
From  South  and  North  I  have  brought  the  best: 
The  feathers  fine  from  an  eagle's  crest, 
The  silken  threads  from  a  prince's  vest, 
The  warm  rose-leaf  from  a  maiden's  breast — 

(0  long  he  bideth,  the  Grand  Seigneur!}." 

They  had  gone  scarce  a  mile  farther  when  Pierre, 
chancing  to  turn  round,  saw  a  horseman  riding  hard 
after  them.  They  drew  up,  and  soon  the  man — a 
Rider  of  the  Plains — was  beside  them.  He  had  stopped 
at  Throng's  to  find  Halby,  and  had  followed  them. 
Murder  had  been  committed  near  the  border,  and  Halby 
was  needed  at  once.  Halby  stood  still,  numb  with 
distress,  for  there  was  Lydia.  He  turned  to  Pierre  in 
dismay.  Pierre's  face  lighted  up  with  the  spirit  of 


307 

fresh  adventure.  Desperate  enterprises  roused  him; 
the  impossible  had  a  charm  for  him. 

"I  will  go  to  Fort  O'Battle,"  he  said.  "Give  me 
another  pistol." 

"  You  cannot  do  it  alone,"  said  Halby,  hope,  however, 
in  his  voice. 

"I  will  do  it,  or  it  will  do  me,  voila!"  Pierre  replied. 

Halby  passed  over  a  pistol. 

"I'll  never  forget  it,  on  my  honour,  if  you  do  it,"  he 
said. 

Pierre  mounted  his  horse  and  said,  as  if  a  thought 
had  struck  him:  "If  I  stand  for  the  law  in  this,  will 
you  stand  against  it  some  time  for  me?" 

Halby  hesitated,  then  said,  holding  out  his  hand, 
"Yes,  if  it's  nothing  dirty." 

Pierre  smiled.  "Clean  tit  for  clean  tat,"  he  said, 
touching  Halby's  fingers,  and  then,  with  a  gesture  and 
an  au  revoir,  put  his  horse  to  the  canter,  and  soon  a  surf 
of  snow  was  rising  at  two  points  on  the  prairie,  as  the 
Law  trailed  south  and  east. 

That  night  Pierre  camped  in  the  Jim-a-long-Jo,  find- 
ing there  firewood  in  plenty,  and  Tophet  was  made 
comfortable  in  the  lean-to.  Within  another  thirty  hours 
he  was  hid  hi  the  woods  behind  Fort  O'Battle,  having 
travelled  nearly  all  night.  He  saw  the  dawn  break  and 
the  beginning  of  sunrise  as  he  watched  the  Fort,  grow- 
ing every  moment  colder,  while  his  horse  trembled  and 
whinnied  softly,  suffering  also.  At  last  he  gave  a  little 
grunt  of  satisfaction,  for  he  saw  two  men  come  out  of 
the  Fort  and  go  to  the  corral.  He  hesitated  a  minute 
longer,  then  said:  "I'll  not  wait,"  patted  his  horse's 
neck,  pulled  the  blanket  closer  round  him,  and  started 
for  the  Fort.  He  entered  the  yard — it  was  empty.  He 
went  to  the  door  of  the  Fort,  opened  it,  entered,  shut 


308  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

it,  locked  it  softly,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket.  Then 
he  passed  through  into  a  room  at  the  end  of  the  small 
hallway.  Three  men  rose  from  seats  by  the  fire  as  he 
did  so,  and  one  said:  " Hullo,  who're  you?"  Another 
added:  "It's  Pretty  Pierre." 

Pierre  looked  at  the  table  laid  for  breakfast,  and  said : 
"Where's  Lydia  Throng?" 

The  elder  of  the  three  brothers  replied:  "There's  no 
Lydia  Throng  here.  There's  Lydia  Bontoff,  though, 
and  in  another  week  she'll  be  Lydia  something  else." 

"What  does  she  say  about  it  herself?" 

"You've  no  call  to  know." 

"You  stole  her,  forced  her  from  Throng's — her 
father's  house." 

"She  wasn't  Throng's;  she  was  a  Bontoff — sister  of 
us." 

"Well,  she  says  Throng,  and  Throng  it's  got  to  be." 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  about  it?" 

At  that  moment  Lydia  appeared  at  the  door  leading 
from  the  kitchen. 

"Whatever  she  has  to  say,"  answered  Pierre. 

"Who're  you  talking  for?" 

"For  her,  for  Throng,  for  the  law." 

"The  law — by  gosh,  that's  good!  You,  you  darned 
gambler;  you  scum!"  said  Caleb,  the  brother  who 
knew  him. 

Pierre  showed  all  the  intelligent,  resolute  coolness  of 
a  trained  officer  of  the  law.  He  heard  a  little  cry  behind 
him,  and  stepping  sideways,  and  yet  not  turning  his 
back  on  the  men,  he  saw  Lydia. 

"Pierre!  Pierre!"  she  said  in  a  half-frightened  way, 
yet  with  a  sort  of  pleasure  lighting  up  her  face;  and 
she  stepped  forward  to  him.  One  of  the  brothers  was 
about  to  pull  her  away,  but  Pierre  whipped  out  his  com- 


A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS  309 

'Wait,"  he  said.  "That's  enough.  I'm  for 
the  law;  I  belong  to  the  mounted  police.  I  have  come 
for  the  girl  you  stole." 

The  elder  brother  snatched  the  paper  and  read. 
Then  he  laughed  loud  and  long.  "So  you've  come  to 
fetch  her  away,"  he  said,  "and  this  is  how  you  do 
it!"— he  shook  the  paper.  "Well,  by-  Suddenly  he 
stopped.  "Come,"  he  said,  "have  a  drink,  and  don't  be 
a  dam'  fool.  She's  our  sister, — old  Throng  stole  her, — 
and  she's  goin'  to  marry  our  partner.  Here,  Caleb,  fish 
out  the  brandy-wine,"  he  added  to  his  younger  brother, 
who  went  to  a  cupboard  and  brought  the  bottle. 

Pierre,  waving  the  liquor  away,  said  quietly  to  the 
girl:  "You  wish  to  go  back  to  your  father,  to  Jimmy 
Throng?"  He  then  gave  her  Throng's  message,  and 
added:  "He  sits  there  rocking  in  the  big  chair  and 
coughing — coughing!  And  then  there's  the  picture  on 
the  wall  upstairs  and  the  little  ivory  brush- 
She  put  out  her  hands  towards  him.  "I  hate  them 
all  here,"  she  said.  "I  never  knew  them.  They  forced 
me  away.  I  have  no  father  but  Jimmy  Throng.  I  will 
not  stay,"  she  flashed  out  in  sudden  anger  to  the  others; 
"I'll  kill  myself  and  all  of  you  before  I  marry  that 
Borotte." 

Pierre  could  hear  a  man  tramping  about  upstairs. 
Caleb  knocked  on  the  stove-pipe,  and  called  to  him  to 
come  down.  Pierre  guessed  it  was  Borotte.  This  would 
add  one  more  factor  to  the  game.  He  must  move  at 
once.  He  suddenly  slipped  a  pistol  into  the  girl's  hand, 
and  with  a  quick  word  to  her,  stepped  towards  the  door. 
The  elder  brother  sprang  between — which  was  what  he 
looked  for.  By  this  time  every  man  had  a  weapon 
showing,  snatched  from  wall  and  shelf. 

Pierre  was  cool.  He  said:  "Remember,  I  am  for 
the  law.  I  am  not  one  man.  You  are  thieves  now;  if 


310  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

you  fight  and  kill,  you  will  get  the  rope,  every  one. 
Move  from  the  door,  or  I'll  fire.  The  girl  comes  with 
me."  He  had  heard  a  door  open  behind  him,  now  there 
was  an  oath  and  a  report,  and  a  bullet  grazed  his  cheek 
and  lodged  in  the  wall  beyond.  He  dared  not  turn 
round,  for  the  other  men  were  facing  him.  He  did  not 
move,  but  the  girl  did.  "Coward! "  she  said,  and  raised 
her  pistol  at  Borotte,  standing  with  her  back  against 
Pierre's. 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  no  one  stirred,  and  then 
the  girl,  slowly  walking  up  to  Borotte,  her  pistol  levelled, 
said:  "  You  low  coward — to  shoot  a  man  from  behind; 
and  you  want  to  be  a  decent  girl's  husband !  These  men 
that  say  they're  my  brothers  are  brutes,  but  you're  a 
sneak.  If  you  stir  a  step  I'll  fire." 

The  cowardice  of  Borotte  was  almost  ridiculous.  He 
dared  not  harm  the  girl,  and  her  brothers  could  not  pre- 
vent her  harming  him.  Here  there  came  a  knocking  at 
the  front  door.  The  other  brothers  had  come,  and  found 
it  locked.  Pierre  saw  the  crisis,  and  acted  instantly. 
"The  girl  and  I — we  will  fight  you  to  the  end,"  he  said, 
"and  then  what's  left  of  you  the  law  will  fight  to  the  end. 
Come,"  he  added,  "the  old  man  can't  live  a  week. 
When  he's  gone  then  you  can  try  again.  She  will  have 
what  he  owns.  Quick,  or  I  arrest  you  all,  and  then — " 

"Let  her  go,"  said  Borotte;  "it  ain't  no  use." 

Presently  the  elder  brother  broke  out  laughing. 
"Damned  if  I  thought  the  girl  had  the  pluck,  an' 
damned  if  I  thought  Borotte  was  a  crawler.  Put  an 
eye  out  of  him,  Liddy,  an'  come  to  your  brother's  arms. 
Here,"  he  added  to  the  others,  "up  with  your  popguns; 
this  shindy's  off;  and  the  girl  goes  back  till  the  old  man 
tucks  up.  Have  a  drink,"  he  added  to  Pierre,  as  he 
stood  his  rifle  in  a  corner  and  came  to  the  table. 

In  half  an  hour  Pierre  and  the  girl  were  on  their  way, 


A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS  311 

leaving  Borotte  quarrelling  with  the  brothers,  and  all 
drinking  heavily.  The  two  arrived  at  Throng's  late 
the  next  afternoon.  There  had  been  a  slight  thaw  dur- 
ing the  day,  and  the  air  was  almost  soft,  water  dripping 
from  the  eaves  down  the  long  icicles. 

When  Lydia  entered,  the  old  man  was  dozing  hi  his 
chair.  The  sound  of  an  axe  out  behind  the  house  told 
where  Due  was.  The  whisky-and-herbs  was  beside  the 
sick  man's  chair,  and  his  feet  were  wrapped  about  with 
bearskins.  The  girl  made  a  little  gesture  of  pain,  and 
then  stepped  softly  over  and,  kneeling,  looked  into 
Throng's  face.  The  lips  were  moving. 

"Dad,"  she  said,  "are  you  asleep?" 

"I  be  a  durn  fool,  I  be,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  and 
then  he  began  to  cough.  She  took  his  hands.  They 
were  cold,  and  she  rubbed  them  softly.  "I  feel  so 
a'mighty  holler,"  he  said,  gasping,  "an'  that  bread's 
sour  agin."  He  shook  his  head  pitifully. 

His  eyes  at  last  settled  on  her,  and  he  recognised  her. 
He  broke  into  a  giggling  laugh;  the  surprise  was  almost 
too  much  for  his  feeble  mind  and  body.  His  hands 
reached  and  clutched  hers.  "Liddy!  Liddy!"  he  whis- 
pered, then  added  peevishly,  "the  bread's  sour,  an' 
the  boneset  and  camomile's  no  good.  .  .  .  Ain't  to- 
morrow bakin'-day?"  he  added. 

"Yes,  dad,"  she  said,  smoothing  his  hands. 

"What  danged — liars — they  be — Liddy!  You're  my 
gel,  ain't  ye?" 

"Yes,  dad.    I'll  make  some  boneset  liquor  now." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  with  childish  eagerness  and  a 
weak,  wild  smile.  "That's  it — that's  it." 

She  was  about  to  rise,  but  he  caught  her  shoulder. 
"I  bin  a  good  dad  to  ye,  hain't  I,  Liddy? "  he  whispered. 

"Always." 


312  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"Never  had  no  ma  but  Manette,  did  ye?" 

"Never,  dad." 

"What  danged  liars  they  be!"  he  said,  chuckling. 

She  kissed  him,  and  moved  away  to  the  fire  to  pour 
hot  water  and  whisky  on  the  herbs. 

His  eyes  followed  her  proudly,  shining  like  wet  glass 
in  the  sun.  He  laughed — such  a  wheezing,  soundless 
laugh! 

"He!  he!  he!  I  ain't  no — durn — fool — bless — the 
Lord!"  he  said. 

Then  the  shining  look  in  his  eyes  became  a  grey 
film,  and  the  girl  turned  round  suddenly,  for  the  long, 
wheezy  breathing  had  stopped.  She  ran  to  him,  and, 
lifting  up  his  head,  saw  the  look  that  makes  even  the 
fool  seem  wise  in  his  cold  stillness.  Then  she  sat  down 
on  the  floor,  laid  her  head  against  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
and  wept. 

It  was  very  quiet  inside.  From  without  there  came 
the  twang  of  an  axe,  and  a  man's  voice  talking  to  his 
horse.  When  the  man  came  in,  he  lifted  the  girl  up,  and, 
to  comfort  her,  bade  her  go  look  at  a  picture  hanging 
in  her  little  room.  After  she  was  gone  he  lifted  the  body, 
put  it  on  a  couch,  and  cared  for  it. 


THE  PLUNDERER 

IT  was  no  use:  men  might  come  and  go  before  her, 
but  Kitty  Cline  had  eyes  for  only  one  man.  Pierre 
made  no  show  of  liking  her,  and  thought,  at  first,  that 
hers  was  a  passing  fancy.  He  soon  saw  differently. 
There  was  that  look  hi  her  eyes  which  burns  conviction 
as  deep  as  the  furnace  from  which  it  comes:  the  hot, 
shy,  hungering  look  of  desire;  most  childlike,  painfully 
infinite.  He  would  rather  have  faced  the  cold  mouth 
of  a  pistol;  for  he  felt  how  it  would  end.  He  might  be 
beyond  wish  to  play  the  lover,  but  he  knew  that  every 
man  can  endure  being  loved.  He  also  knew  that  some 
are  possessed — a  dream,  a  spell,  what  you  will — for 
their  life  long.  Kitty  Cline  was  one  of  these. 

He  thought  he  must  go  away,  but  he  did  not.  From 
the  hour  he  decided  to  stay  misfortune  began.  Willie 
Haslam,  the  clerk  at  the  Company's  Post,  had  learned 
a  trick  or  two  at  cards  in  the  east,  and  imagined  that 
he  could,  as  he  said  himself,  "roast  the  cock  o'  the  roost" 
— meaning  Pierre.  He  did  so  for  one  or  two  evenings, 
and  then  Pierre  had  a  sudden  increase  of  luck  (or  de- 
sign), and  the  lad,  seeing  no  chance  of  redeeming  the 
I  0  U,  representing  two  years'  salary,  went  down  to 
the  house  where  Kitty  Cline  lived,  and  shot  himself  on 
the  door-step. 

He  had  had  the  misfortune  to  prefer  Kitty  to  the 
other  girls  at  Guidon  Hill — though  Nellie  Sanger  would 
have  been  as  much  to  him,  if  Kitty  had  been  easier  to 
win.  The  two  things  together  told  hard  against  Pierre. 
Before,  he  might  have  gone;  in  the  face  of  difficulty  he 

313 


314  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

certainly  would  not  go.  Willie  Haslam's  funeral  was  a 
public  function :  he  was  young,  innocent-looking,  hand- 
some, and  the  people  did  not  know  what  Pierre  would 
not  tell  now — that  he  had  cheated  grossly  at  cards. 
Pierre  was  sure,  before  Liddall,  the  surveyor,  told  him, 
that  a  movement  was  apace  to  give  him  trouble — pos- 
sibly fatal. 

"You  had  better  go,"  said  Liddall.  "There's  no 
use  tempting  Providence." 

"They  are  tempting  the  devil,"  was  the  cool  reply; 
"and  that  is  not  all  joy,  as  you  shall  see." 

He  stayed.  For  a  tune  there  was  no  demonstration 
on  either  side.  He  came  and  went  through  the  streets, 
and  was  found  at  his  usual  haunts,  to  observers  as  cool 
and  nonchalant  as  ever.  He  was  a  changed  man,  how- 
ever. He  never  got  away  from  the  look  in  Kitty  Cline's 
eyes.  He  felt  the  thing  wearing  on  him,  and  he  hesi- 
tated to  speculate  on  the  result;  but  he  knew  vaguely 
that  it  would  end  in  disaster.  There  is  a  kind  of  cor- 
rosion which  eats  the  granite  out  of  the  blood,  and  leaves 
fever. 

"What  is  the  worst  thing  that  can  happen  a  man, 
eh?"  he  said  to  Liddall  one  day,  after  having  spent 
a  few  minutes  with  Kitty  Cline. 

Liddall  was  an  honest  man.  He  knew  the  world  tol- 
erably well.  In  writing  once  to  his  partner  in  Montreal 
he  had  spoken  of  Pierre  as  "an  admirable,  interesting 
scoundrel."  Once  when  Pierre  called  him  "mon  ami," 
and  asked  him  to  come  and  spend  an  evening  in  his  cot- 
tage, he  said: 

"Yes,  I  will  go.  But — pardon  me — not  as  your 
friend.  Let  us  be  plain  with  each  other.  I  never  met  a 
man  of  your  stamp  before — " 

"A  professional  gambler — yes?    Bien?" 


THE  PLUNDERER  315 

"You  interest  me;  I  like  you;  you  have  great  clever- 
ness— 

"A  priest  once  told  me  I  had  a  great  brain — there  is 
a  difference.  Well?" 

"You  are  like  no  man  I  ever  met  before.  Yours  is  a 
life  like  none  I  ever  knew.  I  would  rather  talk  with  you 
than  with  any  other  man  in  the  country,  and  yet— 

"And  yet  you  would  not  take  me  to  your  home? 
That  is  all  right.  I  expect  nothing.  I  accept  the  terms. 
I  know  what  I  am  and  what  you  are.  I  like  men  who  are 
square.  You  would  go  out  of  your  way  to  do  me  a 
good  turn." 

It  was  on  his  tongue  to  speak  of  Kitty  Cline,  but  he 
hesitated :  it  was  not  fair  to  the  girl,  he  thought,  though 
what  he  had  intended  was  for  her  good.  He  felt  he  had 
no  right  to  assume  that  Liddall  knew  how  things  were. 
The  occasion  slipped  by. 

But  the  same  matter  had  been  in  his  mind  when,  later, 
he  asked,  "What  is  the  worst  thing  that  can  happen  to 
a  man?" 

Liddall  looked  at  him  long,  and  then  said:  "To  stand 
between  two  fires." 

Pierre  smiled :  it  was  an  answer  after  his  own  heart. 
Liddall  remembered  it  very  well  in  the  future. 

"What  is  the  thing  to  do  in  such  a  case?"  Pierre 
asked. 

"It  is  not  good  to  stand  still." 

"But  what  if  you  are  stunned,  or  do  not  care?" 

"You  should  care.  It  is  not  wise  to  strain  a  situ- 
ation." 

Pierre  rose,  walked  up  and  down  the  room  once  or 
twice,  then  stood  still,  his  arms  folded,  and  spoke  in  a 
low  tone.  "Once  in  the  Rockies  I  was  lost.  I  crept  into 
a  cave  at  night.  I  knew  it  was  the  nest  of  some  wild 


316  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

animal;  but  I  was  nearly  dead  with  hunger  and  fatigue. 
I  fell  asleep.  When  I  woke — it  was  towards  morning — 
I  saw  two  yellow  stars  glaring  where  the  mouth  of  the 
cave  had  been.  They  were  all  hate:  like  nothing  you 
could  imagine:  passion  as  it  is  first  made — yes.  There 
was  also  a  rumbling  sound.  It  was  terrible,  and  yet  I 
was  not  scared.  Hate  need  not  disturb  you. — I  am  a 
quick  shot.  I  killed  that  mountain  lion,  and  I  ate  the 
haunch  of  deer  I  dragged  from  under  her  .  .  .  ' 

He  turned  now,  and,  facing  the  doorway,  looked  out 
upon  the  village,  to  the  roof  of  a  house  which  they  both 
knew.  "Hate,"  he  said,  "is  not  the  most  wonderful 
thing.  I  saw  a  woman  look  once  as  though  she  could 
lose  the  whole  world — and  her  own  soul.  She  was  a 
good  woman.  The  man  was  bad — most:  he  never 
could  be  anything  else.  A  look  like  that  breaks  the 
nerve.  It  is  not  amusing.  In  tune  the  man  goes  to 
pieces.  But  before  that  comes  he  is  apt  to  do  strange 
things.  Eh— so!" 

He  sat  down,  and,  with  his  finger,  wrote  musingly 
in  the  dust  upon  the  table. 

Liddall  looked  keenly  at  him,  and  replied  more 
brusquely  than  he  felt:  "Do  you  think  it  fair  to  stay — 
fair  to  her?" 

"What  if  I  should  take  her  with  me?"  Pierre  flashed 
a  keen,  searching  look  after  the  words. 

"It  would  be  useless  devilry." 

"Let  us  drink,"  said  Pierre,  as  he  came  to  his  feet 
quickly:  "then  for  the  House  of  Lords"  (the  new  and 
fashionable  tavern). 

They  separated  in  the  street,  and  Pierre  went  to  the 
House  of  Lords  alone.  He  found  a  number  of  men  gath- 
ered before  a  paper  pasted  on  a  pillar  of  the  veranda. 
Hearing  his  own  name,  he  came  nearer.  A  ranch- 


THE  PLUNDERER  317 

man  was  reading  aloud  an  article  from  a  newspaper 
printed  two  hundred  miles  away.  The  article  was 
headed,  "  A  Villainous  Plunderer."  It  had  been  written 
by  someone  at  Guidon  Hill.  All  that  was  discreditable 
in  Pierre's  life  it  set  forth  with  rude  clearness;  he  was 
credited  with  nothing  pardonable.  In  the  crowd  there 
were  mutterings  unmistakable  to  Pierre.  He  suddenly 
came  among  them,  caught  a  revolver  from  his  pocket, 
and  shot  over  the  reader's  shoulder  six  tunes  into  the 
pasted  strip  of  newspaper. 

The  men  dropped  back.  They  were  not  prepared  for 
warlike  measures  at  the  moment.  Pierre  leaned  his 
back  against  the  pillar  and  waited.  His  silence  and  cool- 
ness, together  with  an  iron  fierceness  in  his  face,  held 
them  from  instant  demonstration  against  him;  but  he 
knew  that  he  must  face  active  peril  soon.  He  pocketed 
his  revolver  and  went  up  the  hill  to  the  house  of  Kitty 
Cline's  mother.  It  was  the  first  tune  he  had  ever  been 
there.  At  the  door  he  hesitated,  but  knocked  presently, 
and  was  admitted  by  Kitty,  who,  at  sight  of  him,  turned 
faint  with  sudden  joy,  and  grasped  the  lintel  to  steady 
herself. 

Pierre  quietly  caught  her  about  the  waist,  and  shut 
the  door.  She  recovered,  and  gently  disengaged  herself. 
He  made  no  further  advance,  and  they  stood  looking 
at  each  other  for  a  minute :  he,  as  one  who  had  come  to 
look  at  something  good  he  was  never  to  see  again;  she, 
as  at  something  she  hoped  to  see  for  ever.  They  had 
never  before  been  where  no  eyes  could  observe  them. 
He  ruled  his  voice  to  calmness. 

"I  am  going  away,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  come  to 
say  good-bye." 

Her  eyes  never  wavered  from  his.  Her  voice  was 
scarce  above  a  whisper. 


318  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

"Why  do  you  go?    Where  are  you  going?" 

"I  have  been  here  too  long.  I  am  what  they  call  a 
villain  and  a  plunderer.  I  am  going  to — mon  Dieu,  I 
do  not  know!"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  smiled 
with  a  sort  of  helpless  disdain. 

She  leaned  her  hands  on  the  table  before  her.  Her 
voice  was  still  that  low,  clear  murmur. 

"What  people  say  doesn't  matter."  She  staked  her 
all  upon  her  words.  She  must  speak  them,  though 
she  might  hate  herself  afterwards.  "Are  you  going — 
alone?" 

"Where  I  may  have  to  go  I  must  travel  alone." 

He  could  not  meet  her  eyes  now;  he  turned  his  head 
away.  He  almost  hoped  she  would  not  understand. 

"Sit  down,"  he  added;  "I  want  to  tell  you  of  my 
life." 

He  believed  that  telling  it  as  he  should,  she  would 
be  horror-stricken,  and  that  the  deep  flame  would  die 
out  of  her  eyes.  Neither  he  nor  she  knew  how  long 
they  sat  there,  he  telling  with  grim  precision  of  the  life 
he  had  led.  Her  hands  were  clasped  before  her,  and 
she  shuddered  once  or  twice,  so  that  he  paused;  but 
she  asked  him  firmly  to  go  on. 

When  all  was  told  he  stood  up.  He  could  not  see 
her  face,  but  he  heard  her  say: 

"You  have  forgotten  many  things  that  were  not  bad. 
Let  me  say  them."  She  named  things  that  would  have 
done  honour  to  a  better  man.  He  was  standing  in  the 
moonlight  that  came  through  the  window.  She  stepped 
forward,  her  hands  quivering  out  to  him.  "Oh,  Pierre," 
she  said,  "I  know  why  you  tell  me  this :  but  it  makes  no 
difference — none!  I  will  go  with  you  wherever  you  go." 

He  caught  her  hands  in  his.  She  was  stronger  than 
he  was  now.  Her  eyes  mastered  him.  A  low  cry  broke 


THE  PLUNDERER  319 

from  him,  and  he  drew  her  almost  fiercely  into  his 
arms. 

" Pierre!  Pierre!"  was  all  she  could  say. 

He  kissed  her  again  and  again  upon  the  mouth.  As 
he  did  so,  he  heard  footsteps  and  muffled  voices  with- 
out. Putting  her  quickly  from  him,  he  sprang  towards 
the  door,  threw  it  open,  closed  it  behind  him,  and  drew 
his  revolvers.  A  half-dozen  men  faced  him.  Two  bul- 
lets whistled  by  his  head,  and  lodged  in  the  door.  Then 
he  fired  swiftly,  shot  after  shot,  and  three  men  fell. 
His  revolvers  were  empty.  There  were  three  men  left. 
The  case  seemed  all  against  him  now,  but  just  here  a 
shot,  and  then  another,  came  from  the  window,  and  a 
fourth  man  fell.  Pierre  sprang  upon  one,  the  other 
turned  and  ran.  There  was  a  short  sharp  struggle: 
then  Pierre  rose  up — alone. 

The  girl  stood  in  the  doorway.  "Come,  my  dear," 
he  said,  "you  must  go  with  me  now." 

"Yes,  Pierre,"  she  cried,  a  mad  light  in  her  face,  "I 
have  killed  men  too — for  you." 

Together  they  ran  down  the  hillside,  and  made  for 
the  stables  of  the  Fort.  People  were  hurrying  through 
the  long  street  of  the  town,  and  torches  were  burning, 
but  they  came  by  a  roundabout  to  the  stables  safely. 
Pierre  was  about  to  enter,  when  a  man  came  out.  It 
was  Liddall.  He  kept  his  horses  there,  and  he  had 
saddled  one,  thinking  that  Pierre  might  need  it. 

There  were  quick  words  of  explanation,  and  then, 
"Must  the  girl  go  too?"  he  asked.  "It  will  increase 
the  danger — besides— 

"I  am  going  wherever  he  goes,"  she  interrupted 
hoarsely.  "I  have  killed  men;  he  and  I  are  the  same 
now." 

Without  a  word  Liddall  turned  back,  threw  a  saddle 


320  A  ROMANY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

on  another  horse,  and  led  it  out  quickly.  "Which  way?  " 
he  asked;  "and  where  shall  I  find  the  horses?" 

"West  to  the  mountains.  The  horses  you  will  find 
at  Tete  Blanche  Hill,  if  we  get  there.  If  not,  there  is 
money  under  the  white  pine  at  my  cottage.  Good- 
bye!" 

They  galloped  away.  But  there  were  mounted  men 
in  the  main  street,  and  one,  well  ahead  of  the  others, 
was  making  towards  the  bridge  over  which  they  must 
pass.  He  reached  it  before  they  did,  and  set  his  horse 
crosswise  in  its  narrow  entrance.  Pierre  urged  his  mare 
in  front  of  the  girl's,  and  drove  straight  at  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  the  obstructing  horse.  His  was  the 
heavier  animal,  and  it  bore  the  other  down.  The  rider 
fired  as  he  fell,  but  missed,  and,  in  an  instant,  Pierre 
and  the  girl  were  over.  The  fallen  man  fired  the  sec- 
ond tune,  but  again  missed.  They  had  a  fair  start,  but 
the  open  prairie  was  ahead  of  them,  and  there  was  no 
chance  to  hide.  Riding  must  do  all,  for  their  pursuers 
were  hi  full  cry.  For  an  hour  they  rode  hard.  They 
could  see  their  hunters  not  very  far  in  the  rear.  Sud- 
denly Pierre  started  and  sniffed  the  air. 

"The  prairie's  on  fire,"  he  said  exultingly,  defiantly. 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  clouds  ran  down  the  horizon,  and 
then  the  sky  lighted  up.  The  fire  travelled  with  in- 
credible swiftness:  they  were  hastening  to  meet  it.  It 
came  on  wave-like,  hurrying  down  at  the  right  and  the 
left  as  if  to  close  in  on  them.  The  girl  spoke  no  word; 
she  had  no  fear:  what  Pierre  did  she  would  do.  He 
turned  round  to  see  his  pursuers:  they  had  wheeled 
and  were  galloping  back  the  way  they  came.  His  horse 
and  hers  were  travelling  neck  and  neck.  He  looked  at 
her  with  an  intense,  eager  gaze. 

"Will  you  ride  on?"  he  asked  eagerly.     "We  are 


THE  PLUNDERER  321 

between  two  fires."  He  smiled,  remembering  his  words 
to  Liddall. 

"Ride  on,"  she  urged  in  a  strong,  clear  voice,  a  kind 
of  wild  triumph  in  it.  "You  shall  not  go  alone." 

There  ran  into  his  eyes  now  the  same  infinite  look 
that  had  been  in  hers — that  had  conquered  him.  The 
flame  rolling  towards  them  was  not  brighter  or  hotter. 

"For  heaven  or  hell,  my  girl!"  he  cried,  and  they 
drove  their  horses  on — on. 

Far  behind  upon  a  Divide  the  flying  hunters  from 
Guidon  Hill  paused  for  a  moment.  They  saw  with 
hushed  wonder  and  awe  a  man  and  woman,  dark  and 
weird  against  the  red  light,  ride  madly  into  the  flick- 
ering surf  of  fire. 


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